


We Got Lucky

by The_Muses_Summer_House



Category: The Avengers (Marvel Movies), The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: F/M, Family, Five Years Later, Fix-It of Sorts, Friendship, Gen, Grief/Mourning, Peter Parker Survives the Snap, snap
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-03-27
Updated: 2020-12-05
Packaged: 2021-03-01 00:54:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 17
Words: 129,972
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23342812
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/The_Muses_Summer_House/pseuds/The_Muses_Summer_House
Summary: In the wake of the snap, three people leave Titan. Peter Parker is alive. Returning to devastation, he learns to navigate his new life with Tony Stark. Part 1/3 of a long AU Endgame fix-it series.
Relationships: Pepper Potts/Tony Stark, Peter Parker & Morgan Stark (Marvel Cinematic Universe), Peter Parker & Pepper Potts, Peter Parker & Tony Stark
Comments: 175
Kudos: 514





	1. 22 Days

_Day 5_

Peter had never seen anything quite as beautifully tranquil as the vast expanse of outer space. Beyond the thick panes of glass, he could see galaxies, as tiny as the heads of push pins, dotting the sea of darkness. Some of them were large enough for him to make out the swirling pattern of stars and planets in it. Close enough for him to see, but too far away for alien civilizations to hear their distress signals.

That, in and of itself, was a blessing and a curse.

All of those planets, the thousands floating off in the distance, couldn't hear the Benatar's distress signals, and that would spell out their deaths. But it also meant that Peter couldn't hear the distress of all those thousands of planets that he had failed. The screams and cries of billions were swallowed up by the beautiful numbing void of space. Muted, even to Peter's ears. For that, he was grateful. It was bad enough that Peter had to watch people disintegrate in his nightmares. At least during the time that he was awake, he could smother his guilt by focusing on his survival.

Every night was different. Some nights Peter would remember how that odd bunch of aliens, the Guardians of the Galaxy, and Doctor Strange had flaked off piece by piece and gotten lost in the wind. Sometimes he watched May crumble in to ash in their kitchen. Other nights it was Ned and MJ who would dissolve in to nothing in the school cafeteria.

Every night, Peter would wake in a cold sweat and with a scream on his lips. Every night, Mr. Stark would come to him and hold him like a child while he cried. Five days ago, such an act would have embarrassed Peter beyond belief. Five days ago, Peter had been under the delusion that he was grown up enough to handle being an Avenger. He was always trying to prove himself to his mentor. Trying to prove that he was capable enough to handle himself and shoulder the responsibility of hero work. But he wasn't capable. Half of all life in the universe paid the price of this realization. In the wake of his failure, Peter could see how, in the grand scheme of things, he was still a kid.

The expanse of space that stretched out before him held a small mercy; Blissful ignorance as to who was dead and who was alive. Peter only had to witness the deaths of the four that had been with them on Titan. Everyone else that he loved, and all those who he didn't or who he had never even met, lived in a state of being both alive and dead. Like Schrodinger's universe.

"You gonna stare at the stars all day, or are you gonna make yourself useful?" Mr. Stark's voice came from behind Peter. Peter blinked to refocus his eyes and saw the man's reflection behind his shoulder in the giant window of the Benatar. Peter turned around to face him and saw that Mr. Stark was carrying a box with various tools in it.

Peter wasn't exactly sure what he looked like right now, but whatever it was made Mr. Stark's face crinkle with concern. In these past five days, Peter found that he felt too much and also too little. There were times, like those nights when he would wake up screaming from nightmares and crying in to Mr. Stark's chest, where he felt too much. The weight of his grief would crush his lungs until they could barely function and he was left drawing breath in shaky, rattling bursts.

Other times, Peter felt oddly detached from everything. It felt as if he was living in a dream and everything was just happening around him. Like nothing was real and he was just walking around in a sleepy haze.

Peter kinda felt like that right now.

Shifting the box of tools under one arm, Mr. Stark wrapped his free arm around Peter's shoulders and guided him away from the window. Peter could feel the weight of Mr. Stark's arm, yet it didn't really register in his brain. Nor did he really feel aware that he was walking.

"C'mon, kid. We got an engine to fix." Mr. Stark said softly. Peter said nothing in response as they walked down the hall towards the engine room. The fuel lines in the ship had been damaged during the fight. They had been repaired on the first day, but within the first 48 hours the ship had run out of gas. The problem, as far as Peter was aware, wasn't with the engine. He couldn't help but wonder if this was just busy work for Mr. Stark. Maybe he needed the illusion, the dream, that he could fix this. "The Blue Meanie thinks she might've spotted where the problem is."

Five days ago, Peter might have said that it was unfair to call Nebula a 'meanie'. She wasn't mean, just socially awkward. Then he might have thought about it some more and realized that Mr. Stark was making a reference to some old tv show or movie that Peter had never seen. Then Mr. Stark would have laughed and called him a kid when Peter admitted that he didn't get the reference.

But Peter didn't say any of those things now. He couldn't find his voice. It was lost, just like he was lost.

He was lost in space.

His voice was lost in himself.

* * *

_Day 10_

Being stranded in space with a dwindling supply of resources made Peter acutely aware of how much he had taken for granted on Earth. Like access to food and water. He had lived in New York, one of the largest cities in the world. Food and water had always been within reach. Even for those who couldn't afford it, there were still safety nets like food banks and welfare in place. Dying of starvation had never been a thought that had crossed Peter's mind before.

God, he was so hungry.

The Benatar had been floating through space for ten days. On the first day, he, Mr. Stark and Nebula had turned the ship upside down, looking for any and all food and water available. After the first 48 hours, the Benatar had become stranded in space, and it became apparent to them all that they may be stranded for a long period of time. Maybe indefinitely. Peter tried not to think about that too much. Any time he did, panic would seize his throat and cut off his breathing.

Mr. Stark had rationed their food in to portions large enough to sustain them for each day, but it was hardly enough to sustain Peter's metabolism. Peter never mentioned anything about it to Mr. Stark. The man was well aware of Peter's unique genetic enhancements and what was required to maintain them. It was a problem with no solution. There was simply no more food to be found. Peter knew, before he even started, that his search would be fruitless, but still he searched. His hunger pangs urging him to do so.

Every room in the Benatar had already been searched. The sleeping quarter that Peter stood in was no exception. He could tell that either Nebula or Mr. Stark had already ransacked the place, as everything in the room was a jumbled mess. Drawers were left half pulled out, papers were strewn about and on the desk a few cassette tapes lay with the labels facing up. Peter hadn't known any of the aliens who had lived on the ship well enough to be able to tell whose room it was based on the personal effects. A tiny part of him felt guilty for going through someone's room without their permission, but it was easily pushed from his mind by his growing hunger.

Peter's eyes swept over the room quickly, although he wasn't exactly sure what he was looking for. He supposed he was looking for anything that looked like it hadn't been disturbed yet. On top of the bedside table, Peter saw what appeared to be an old-school mp3 player. It was clunky and old. A pair of earbuds trailed out of the top and were wrapped around it. Excitement filled Peter as he picked it up and put it in his pocket. Music would help time go by faster. Being trapped in a ship for ten days with nothing to do was causing him to go stir crazy.

The underside of a bed was an obvious place to hide something. Surely, anything of value had already been taken from it. Peter dropped to his knees to peer under the bed, and was surprised to see it was messy, but undisturbed. A bunch of balled up dirty clothes littered the space. The subtle stench of body odor made Peter's nose crinkle. He felt a small smirk pull at his lips as he realized that the space under his bed at home looked much like this. At least he could blame his messy room on being a lazy teenager. All of the guardians that he had met were adults.

In the corner, pressed up against the wall, was a small box. Peter's heart leapt in anticipation at the sight of it. Maybe it was a secret stash of cookies that one of the guardians didn't feel like sharing with the others. Peter lay down on his stomach and reached as far as he could under the bed. His fingers barely brushed the side of the box, but he managed to hook his finger tips under the edge of the lid and pull it out.

Peter shifted his body so that he was sitting cross legged on the floor and leaning against the bed. The box was small, maybe a foot in width and length and six inches deep. There was no lock on it and Peter mentally crossed his fingers in hopes of finding some kind of midnight snack in it. He lifted the lid and was greeted with the sight of an orange-haired troll doll.

What?

Who the hell keeps creepy little troll dolls in a box under their bed? But then again, Peter supposed that wasn't fair of him to say. He still played with Legos, so who was he to judge. Peter sighed and rubbed a hand over his eyes. This wasn't him. He wasn't normally this irritable. Hunger was just making him cranky, and the disappointment of not finding anything edible was overwhelming.

It would have been a nice surprise for Mr. Stark, if he had managed to reappear in the lower level of the Benatar with some over-looked food in hand. His enhanced hearing could make out the sounds of the ship, constantly buzzing and whirling, along with the sounds of Mr. Stark and Nebula going about their business.

Peter moved to place the lid back on top of the box when he noticed something peeking out at him from under the layers of junk; His name written on a faded yellow envelop. All of his thoughts screeched to a sudden halt.

How was that possible? No one could have known that he would be here, on the Benatar, stranded in space. So how…?

With shaking hands, Peter reached down to pull out the envelop. Inside of it, he found a letter written in unfamiliar handwriting. His eyes skimmed over the contents of the letter. It didn't make sense until he reached the end.

' _You are the light of my life,_

_my precious son,_

_my little Star Lord._

_Love, Mom.'_

Oh, God.

Peter's cheeks flushed with shame from having read something so personal. This farewell letter from a dying mother to her son wasn't meant for his eyes. In his defense, he hadn't known that Star Lord's real name was Peter. They hadn't gotten that well acquainted in the brief time before the battle came. Before Thanos. Peter suddenly felt very ashamed at having thought that this was just a box of random junk. Clearly, it all had sentimental value. Idly, Peter wondered who the troll doll had belonged to.

He shouldn't be here. This was Peter Quill's home and he was intruding.

"Why are you altering the rations?"

Nebula's hard metallic voice came from the level below Peter. It was faint, but Peter's enhanced hearing managed to catch her words.

"It's nothing. Don't worry about it." Mr. Stark shot back in a hushed tone. Peter glanced quizzically at the floor, the general direction where the conversation was coming from. Mr. Stark was altering the rations?

"You have not divided these up equally." Nebula said in her usual monotonous voice. "You have given the boy more than his share-"

"Shut up. The kid has really good hearing." Mr. Stark hissed so faintly that Peter almost couldn't hear it. But he _did_ hear it, and he became frozen to his spot on the floor. Mr. Stark was giving Peter larger portions? Their food was a finite amount, that meant that either Mr. Stark or Nebula would have to have less. Peter already knew that Mr. Stark would never take from someone else. Without a doubt, Mr. Stark was reducing his own rations. The silence stretched on for a moment before Nebula spoke again.

"You are willing to prioritize the boy's survival over your own?"

The question made Peter's throat constrict and tears stung at his eyes. All of this was so unfair. This wasn't a choice that anyone should have to make.

"I knew this was a one-way ticket for me, but I want Peter to see home again."

A strangled sob escaped Peter's lips before he smothered his mouth with his palm. It was too much. Peter didn't want Mr. Stark to make sacrifices on his account. Didn't want him to lessen his own chances of survival because of his presence. He couldn't stand to hear another word. With shaking fingers, Peter fished the mp3 player out of his pocket and hastily jammed the ear buds in to his ears. The screen lit up and displayed the company's name; Zune. He hit the shuffle button, not caring about whatever song was about to play. He just needed something to drown out the conversation below deck.

Soft, folk-county music blared in Peter's ears causing him to wince. He turned the volume down to a comfortable level, and then he realized that he recognized the song. His mom had been a John Denver fan. Though Peter hadn't heard this song in years, he still knew all the words.

' _Country roads, take me home_

_To the place I belong._

_West Virginia, mountain momma,_

_Take me home, country roads.'_

Peter was laughing and he couldn't stop. Or was he crying? Was there really a difference anymore? He looped his arms around his knees and buried his head in his pant legs. His tears soaked through the fabric, wetting his knees.

* * *

_Day 15_

Peter knew that he was going to die in seven days. Well, he knew that he and Mr. Stark would die in seven days. He wasn't sure when Nebula would die. As an alien cyborg, she didn't need to eat as much as a human in order to sustain herself. Maybe she didn't need to breathe air like humans did. Peter had thought it would be a tactless question to ask in the face of their imminent deaths. Not to mention, the answer would be irrelevant. No one was coming to rescue them, so she would die eventually. They were all living on borrowed time.

Food and water would be used up in three days.

The oxygen supply would run out in seven days.

Mr. Stark had tried to keep that bit of information a secret from Peter, but he had overheard Mr. Stark and Nebula discussing it in hushed tones when they thought he was asleep. Nebula didn't seem to understand why they were keeping Peter in the dark about that fact, but Peter knew that Mr. Stark was trying to protect him. After fourteen consecutive nights of ceaseless nightmares, Mr. Stark probably didn't want to add 'fear of suffocation' to the nightmare fodder. He was probably hoping to spare Peter that fear in hopes that, when the time came, he would just slip off in to an endless sleep.

Oddly enough, knowing the truth had given Peter some peace of mind. He wasn't clinging to the vain hope that they would live. He wanted to live, of course. He wanted to go home and hug May. He wanted to play video games with Ned again. He wanted to finally ask MJ out on a date. But none of that was in the cards.

They were going to die.

Peter didn't want to die, but he was starting to get used to the idea. It didn't elicit the same terror that it once had. He felt almost calm about it.

With this new found peace, Peter had found his voice returning. Or rather, his desire to say anything was returning. He had even managed to crack a joke yesterday when Mr. Stark had knocked a lamp off of the table.

"Shit." The man had cursed under his breath. Peter had smiled weakly before deciding that now was a good time to break his two week long vow of silence.

"Dum-E's not here. You can't blame this one on him."

Mr. Stark had stared at him for a split second, completely dumbfounded, and then Peter saw relief wash over his features. Mr. Stark had laughed with much more enthusiasm than what his weak joke deserved. And for the first time in two weeks, Peter had felt… well, not happy. He doubted that he would feel happy again before he died. But he felt content at least.

Peter had come to terms with his approaching demise. All there was left to do now was to kill time. Mr. Stark seemed to be of the same opinion, though they had never discussed the whole 'dying in space' thing out loud. Peter could see Mr. Stark had also given up any hope of survival. As of the past couple of days, he seemed less hurried. He had also given up the pretense of 'fixing the engine', which hadn't needed repairs to begin with.

All they were doing was waiting to die. Playing a couple rounds of paper football was as good of a time waster as any.

"You don't need to do that, cause you're just holding the position." Mr. Stark explained to Nebula as she tied to snatch the metal foil football out of midair. Peter sat at the end of the table, half watching their table-top football match and half focusing on cutting the spare metal foil in to perfect squares. A small smile played over his lips as he watched Nebula flick the football aggressively. It veered off to the side and missed Mr. Stark's finger goal post.

"That was close."

Nebula growled in frustration as she picked up the football again. Peter pressed his lips in to a hard line to keep from laughing. He knew that Nebula would rip off both of his arms and shove them down his throat if she thought that he was laughing at her. Well, Peter supposed that he _was_ laughing at her, but not maliciously. He just found it amusing how she tackled everything from hand-to-hand combat to engine repair to paper football with 110% ferocity. She grunted again as she flicked the football. This time it sailed over Mr. Stark's fingers.

"That's a goal. We're now at one a piece."

"I would like to try again."

The pair moved in to the tie-breaker round as Peter turned his focus back to the sheets of foil. It had been a long time since he had folded origami, but he remembered that the squares needed to have perfectly equal length sides for it to work. If he stopped to think about the steps needed for folding a paper crane, his mind would draw a blank. He was hoping that his muscle memory would take over when he tried to attempt it. But then again, Peter supposed that it didn't matter if it took him a while to relearn how to fold the crane. It's not like they were in a hurry.

"And, you've won." Peter glanced up to see Nebula staring at Mr. Stark with an incredulous expression. "Congratulations. Fair game. Good sport." He reached forward to shake Nebula's hand. "Did you have fun?"

Nebula seemed to be considering Mr. Stark's words carefully before responding. Peter wondered if anyone had ever asked her that before. As an abducted child, raised by a psychotic genocide obsessed freak, Peter doubted that anyone had ever considered her happiness before. Maybe in the beginning of her life, she had been happy with her family on her home planet. And then life had happened and Thanos had stolen her away. Maybe now, at the end of her life, Peter could do something to make her happy again.

"It was fun." She replied in a strange tone, like the words were foreign to her.

"Do you want a crane, a boat, or a flower?" Peter asked. Nebula stared at him like he had two heads while Mr. Stark looked mildly amused.

"What?"

"For a victory prize." Peter clarified while gesturing with one hand to the small squares of foil. "Do you want a crane, boat, or flower?"

Peter could tell that Nebula still didn't really understand his question. She seemed to be weighing her options carefully.

"Flower."

Peter smiled a small smile while turning his attention to one of the metal foils. The last time he had made an origami lily, he had been in middle school, but he had made a lot of them so he could still remember all of the steps to make it. It was kind of like riding a bike. His hands just knew what to do. There was silence during the few minutes that it took him to fold the flower. He put the final touches on it by curling the petals outward and then presented it to Nebula with all of the finesse of a stage magician.

"Ta-da!"

Nebula stared for a moment at the little silver lily before taking it from his extended hand. She turned it gently in her hand, to look at it from all angles. Then she hesitantly lifted it to her nose to sniff. Peter could practically see the confusion growing behind her eyes with each passing second, and once again he had to smother a smile. He glanced over at Mr. Stark to see the man leaning back in his seat and smirking.

"What does it do?"

The question caught Peter a little off guard and he felt his smile slip. He thought the answer was obvious.

"Nothing. It's just pretty."

Nebula was staring at him again. She still looked perplexed though her face was expressionless. It was in her eyes. Solid black and yet still incredibly expressive.

"It serves no purpose."

A tired smile settled over Peter's face as he leaned forward, resting his elbows on to the table. Nebula never really talked much about her life. Peter decided that he didn't really want to know the details of it if the result of such a life was believing that everything needed to have a practical purpose.

"Sure it does. It makes people feel good when they look at it." Peter explained. Nebula blinked slowly and Peter could see his words being turned over in her mind with great care. "When I was in middle school, one of my teachers went on maternity leave and, as a gift, every kid in the class made a flower and we put them in a mason jar. We wanted to make her feel appreciated, but we were also just a bunch of broke 11-year-olds, so a bouquet of paper flowers was the best we could do."

A tiny hint of a smile flashed over Nebula's face. It was subtle and quick, but Peter decided to take it as a sign of success. He wasn't sure if he could count that as making Nebula happy, but at the very least he had gotten her to cut loose, if only for a moment. It was enough.

With that accomplished, Peter felt lost. One task was over, and he needed another one to keep himself sane. Something needed to fill up the 168 or so hours until he died. He supposed that he could just keep folding origami. Maybe, near the end of those 168 hours, Mr. Stark would find him surrounded by a million metal foil cranes. Like in that movie 'I am Sam'. He only knew how to make three things; the crane, the boat, and the flower. It would get tedious after a while. But what else was there to do?

Oh, wait. He knew how to make four things. He forgot about those paper sailor hats.

"Yeah, I guess the only origami craft that has a practical purpose is the hat." Peter mused as he picked up the roll of metal foil and ripped off a larger sheet of it. The hat had fewer steps than the flower, and it took him less than a minute to make. He could feel Nebula's curious eyes on him as he folded the metal sheet. He gave the hat an approving nod when he was done and proudly placed it on his head. He looked up to see both Mr. Stark and Nebula staring at his pointed hat. Nebula with insurmountable confusion and a hint of disgust. Mr. Stark just looked like he had lost a lot of respect for Peter.

"Why would anyone want to wear a metal foil hat?" Nebula asked. "It offers no protection."

Peter felt the smile drop from his face as his mind tried to formulate a response. Sometime he forgot that Nebula, not being from Earth, didn't get his plethora of pop culture jokes and references. Hell, Mr. Stark was from Earth and it was pretty hit and miss for him to get Peter's jokes. Or maybe he got them all, but found them exhausting.

"Oh, uh, some people believe that tin foil hats keep machines from beaming in to your head and reading your thoughts."

An awkward silence filled the room.

"I did not know that Terrans were so stupid."

Mr. Stark laughed as he eyed Peter. Genuine amusement lit his eyes and the sight of it made Peter feel… happy.

Huh.

What a pleasant surprise. Peter was glad that, if only for a moment, they could trick themselves in to feeling alright. In their last days, they could still feel some semblance of their old selves. He didn't want this moment to end, but it would. Still, he would play along for as long as he could.

"Wow. Rude." Peter said flatly, but the smile that tugged at his lips ruined his façade.

"Yeah, we also got a law on Earth that states that all village idiots must wear the shiny metal dunce cap at all times in order to prevent them from blending in with normal society." Mr. Stark said to Nebula, who nodded seriously while he spoke.

Wait, she wasn't taking this seriously, was she?

"We like to pick our idiots out of a crowd, like that." Mr. Stark added with a snap of his fingers and Nebula hummed in agreement.

Oh, God. She was actually buying this crap. Peter spluttered indignantly, which caused Mr. Stark's smile to broaden.

"So, what, are you saying I'm the village idiot of Queens?"

"Well, if the hat fits…" Nebula said, a little less monotonously that usual. In fact, her voice almost sounded teasing.

Wait. She _was_ teasing him. Peter could see it in the ghost of a smile that crossed her face and the subtle crinkling at the corner of her eyes.

Well, how about that?

Mr. Stark seemed just as surprised as Peter was, though he was better at concealing it. Peter wondered if this made them friends. He liked to think that it did, though he didn't dare voice the question aloud. Didn't dare to shatter this moment. He needed to play along and keep it going for as long as possible. Instead he threw a hand dramatically over his heart.

"You know, words hurt, Nebula."

Just play along, and maybe they could stretch this moment in to 168 hours. Play along and maybe they could die laughing.

* * *

_Day 22_

Peter had never felt so miserable in his life. His head was pounding in time with his pulse. His body ached all over in a way that he felt, not only in his muscles, but his bones as well. He was back to his voiceless state. Not because he was in shock, but because his throat was too parched to manage anything above a whisper. Four days without food and water was an arduously painful experience for everyone on board the Benatar. Peter was just feeling worse off because of his metabolism.

Before this twenty-two day long voyage in space, Peter would have pegged the day he was bitten by a radioactive spider and, as a result, was genetically mutated as the most miserable he had ever been. It paled in comparison to this. At least when he had been bitten, the transformation was quick. Over and done with in one feverish night. That was truly what made this experience the worst; it was so long and drawn out.

It was cruel to suffer for twenty-two days. It was crueler still to have to live the remainder of his hours knowing that he wouldn't make it to day twenty-three. He wanted day twenty-three, and all of the days after it. He would be dead by morning when the oxygen ran out. That is, if dehydration didn't kill him first. He remembered reading about how most people could only survive three days without water. But then again, that was usually applied to situations like being stranded in the desert, where the sun was beating down on you. Mr. Stark had been lost in the desert once. Peter wondered which experience had been worse for him.

Sitting in the copilot's chair, Peter found himself staring again at the void of space. The chair was huge. Peter wasn't sure if it was designed to seat a much larger species than a human, or if he had lost so much weight that the chair appeared to be large in comparison to his skinny frame. Both explanations were possible. Peter tried to not look at his reflection in the giant window. Despite Mr. Stark's efforts to give him his best chance at survival, the past three weeks had not been kind to him. The stranger staring back at him was practically a corpse. Emaciated and sickly pale. Eyes sunken and red. Lips cracked and pealing. The sight disgusted and terrified him. He tried to keep his focus on the star speckled sight beyond the glass.

The stars and constellations were different than the ones he had been staring at weeks ago. The Benatar had been drifting through space, but at no point had they floated near enough to a sun for Peter to see daylight again. He wished that he could have felt sunlight on his skin one last time. Dying alone in the cold darkness of space was not preferable. But Peter was an optimist. He had been all of his life. If this was the last sight that he was ever going to see, he was going to enjoy it.

That was easier said than done.

When Peter had first realized that he was going to starve to death, he had gone through a mental list of possible symptoms to expect. What he hadn't counted upon was the overwhelming feeling of fatigue. It was beyond frustrating, to feel so tired and yet be in too much pain to be able to sleep. Even now, staring out of the Benatar's window, Peter could feel his eyes itching and yearning for sleep. If he closed them, he would just be staring at darkness until he suffocated.

If Peter still had his voice, or the energy, he would scream.

He needed something to distract him from the hunger pangs, and his general achiness. He decided to name the constellations he saw before him. That group of stars looked like an umbrella. Below it, and a foot to the left, Peter could see a piece of bread. But only if he squinted.

"Oh, hey Pete."

Mr. Stark was beside him, his sudden appearance startling Peter. Twenty-two days ago, he would have heard Mr. Stark approaching. His senses had deteriorated, just like everything else. With enormous effort, Peter turned his head so that he could see Mr. Stark. His eyes met his mentor's for a brief moment before the man dropped his gaze to the Iron Man helmet that he carried in his hands. Peter understood. He couldn't stand to look at himself either.

"I'm gonna, make a recording for Pepper. In case…" He trailed off in to a choking sound. "Well, you know."

"Yeah. I know." Peter mumbled in his scratchy voice. He knew exactly what Mr. Stark was talking about and Mr. Stark knew that he knew. Despite having never talked about it, here in their final moments, there were no secrets.

Mr. Stark ran his hands nervously over the helmet, and Peter got the impression that he was about to ask him something difficult. Did he want him to leave so that he would have privacy for his recording? Peter knew that he had neither the energy to get up, nor the strength to stand on his legs. Whatever secret, sentimental things he had to say to Ms. Potts would die with him in a couple hours, so it all seemed rather pointless for him to leave.

"Do you want to make one for your aunt?" He finally asked, raising his gaze to meet Peter's.

Huh. Well, he hadn't been expecting that.

Did he want to make a recording? No, he didn't think he did. He didn't have the energy to do anything, and even if he did he wouldn't know what to say. How do you say good-bye to someone who may not even be alive anymore? Peter's thoughts drifted to the little box under Peter Quill's bed. He wondered if that letter from his mom had made him feel better or worse. If her final words had given him comfort to know that she had lived, or grief to be reminded that she had died. If May was alive, he wanted her to remember him at his best. Not like this. He didn't want her to see the shell he had become.

Mr. Stark was staring expectantly at Peter, and he realized sluggishly that he hadn't answered him. He was exhausted, and words were too much work. He shook his head slightly, feeling the dizzy cotton feeling scatter around his brain. Mr. Stark's eyes tightened in… some kind of way. Peter was too tired to guess what the man was feeling. His eyes were heavy, so he closed them for a second.

"… don't know if you're ever gonna see these. I don't even know if you're still… Oh, God I hope so."

Mr. Stark's voice was coming from somewhere behind Peter. He opened his eyes to find that Mr. Stark was gone from his side. Oh, he must have blinked for a long second. A spark of terror, that hadn't quite been extinguished by his apathy, ignited. He needed to stay awake. He was standing on a precipice, about to drop in to something unknown. If he closed his eyes, he might never open them again. Peter focused his remaining strength on Mr. Stark's voice, and listened to him chronicling their journey for Ms. Potts.

"Oh, you'd love her. Very practical. Only a tiny bit sadistic." A tiny smirk curled Peter's lip as he listened to Mr. Stark describe Nebula. "The kid's with me too, but I bet you figured that out already. We needed all hands on deck for this fight, and for some reason Pete thought I wanted him to come along." Mr. Stark voice had a touch of steel to it. Not a lot, but enough make Peter's heart clench. The man paused his monologue and Peter heard him breathe a deep sigh. "I guess at this point, it's spilled milk. He fought with us on an alien planet, and that was very brave and noble. So, that's what I'm choosing to focus on right now. Oh, if you happen to see May Parker, tell her she's allowed to spit on my grave. I'm officially giving her permission."

Peter's throat tightened out of guilt and frustration. He hated that Mr. Stark felt responsible for him. Hated that they were in this situation. But it was his choice to be here. He _chose_ to follow Mr. Stark to battle. He wished that they had won. He wished, at the very least, that they had been granted the mercy of a quick death on Titan, rather than surviving the battle and dying slowly in space. He wished a lot of thing had turned out differently, but he didn't regret fighting. He didn't regret following Mr. Stark. He never could.

"I'll dream about you. Cause it's always you." Mr. Stark whispered. A click followed soon after, and then a long silence.

That was that. Nothing more to say, nothing more to do. Peter supposed that Mr. Stark would go find some place to rest, and wait. Panic crept through him at the thought of Mr. Stark leaving.

Peter didn't want to be alone when he died, but could he find the will to call out to Mr. Stark. He would be alone in the end-

"How you holding up, kid?" Mr. Stark asked as he appeared by his side again. Relief washed over Peter with such intensity that he would have cried if he were capable of it. Mr. Stark sat on the arm rest of the chair and gently put his hand on Peter's shoulder.

"Just peachy." Peter mumbled. It was okay now. Mr. Stark was here. He would stay with him. Peter allowed his eyes to slip closed as he listened to the ambient sounds of the ship and Mr. Stark's breathing.

A minute passed, or maybe more, when suddenly Peter became aware of a second presence standing beside him. All was silent. No words were exchanged. Then Peter felt metal arms slip under his knees and back and lift him up. Peter cracked his eyes open for a second to see Mr. Stark slip in to his chair and Nebula place him on the man's lap. His eyes closed again before his head fell on Mr. Stark's chest. Mr. Stark's arms wrapped around Peter's body and Peter could feel the chest under his ear rising and falling. His heart beat thrummed steadily.

"Thanks, Nebula." The words rumbled in Mr. Stark's chest.

Nebula said nothing, but Peter heard her retreating footsteps. In her wake, a stifling silence remained, whispering promises of a fate soon to come.

Peter wasn't ready.

"Mr. Stark?"

"Yeah?"

"I don't wanna go."

Despite his fear, Peter's voice was hollow. Mr. Stark's arms wrapped around him tighter, as if that would keep him there.

"I know, Pete."

There was something else. One last thing that he needed Mr. Stark to understand.

"You didn't want me to come." He murmured.

"You know that I didn't."

"Doesn't matter." Peter said firmly. "I'll follow you. Anywhere."

Mr. Stark sat frozen for a moment. Silence stretched on, and he said nothing. Peter hadn't anticipated a response, nor did think that one matter. He had said what he needed to say. Here, at the end, nothing really mattered anymore. Under Peter's head, he felt Mr. Stark's body start to tremble. Slowly, wading through the thick haze of his mind, he realized that Mr. Stark was crying. He hadn't meant to make him cry, and now he had nothing left to say to comfort him.

Everything was slipping away. Consciousness slipping like sand between his fingers. Something pressed firmly to the top of his head. Peter had barely the presence of mind to wonder what it was.

' _I love you, kid.'_

Words with no meaning washed over him. Soon after, darkness swallowed him up.


	2. Rescue

The kid's pulse beat softly against the pads of Tony's fingers in a steady rhythm. He pressed his fingers in the hollow under Peter's jaw, just firmly enough to be able to feel the blood traveling under his paper-thin skin. He was worried that if he pressed too hard, the kid would shatter in his grasp. Rationally, he knew that couldn't possibly happen. But the way his bones showed prominently against his skin banished rational thought from his mind. Plus, he had come to learn that it was possible for people to dissolve into ash, so who the hell says that they can't shatter like glass as well. He held Peter in a delicate balance; gently enough to not break yet firmly enough to prove to himself that the boy existed. He was real and alive. The repetitive pressure against his middle and index fingers reassured him that life still flowed through Peter's veins, despite his lifeless appearance.

This fragile, gaunt figure that Tony held in his arms was not Peter Parker. Peter was vibrant. He was full of life, laughter and terrible jokes. All of that had been stripped away in an instant once half of the universe had dissolved. Before it became clear that they had no chance of survival, Tony had hoped that Peter would make it back home. Shock and PTSD were souvenirs that no one in their line of work asked for, but they received them nonetheless. He knew that if he could save Peter, if he could get his boy home, he would overcome it with more dignity and strength than Tony ever could. That hope had driven Tony to sacrifice his own rations. To care for the boy in any way that he could. Tony failed in this last endeavour as well. Peter was going to die. He would never be that quirky dork again, and that was on Tony.

Tony's eyes were heavy, but he didn't dare close them. He owed it to Peter to be conscious for as long as he was alive. To bear witness to his final moments of life. Tony was certain that, though neither one of them had long to live, he would still out-live the kid. Peter's metabolism, which had saved his life time and again, was actively killing him now. And all Tony could do was watch his kid waste away.

One.

Two.

Three.

Tony realized that he was counting each pulse that fluttered under his fingertips. There was no logical reason for him to do this. It's not as if knowing how many times Peter's heart beat hours before his death would matter to anyone. But still, he found that he couldn't stop. It was illogical, but everything about their relationship had been illogical.

It was illogical for Tony to recruit a 14-year-old boy to fight for him in Germany.

It was illogical for Tony to enable Peter's crime fighting past time by making him a multi-million dollar suit.

It was illogical for Peter to trust him even though his shitty mentoring had nearly left him crushed to death underneath a building.

It was illogical for Peter to have such blind faith in him, despite how many times Tony had failed him.

' _I'll follow you. Anywhere.'_

Why? His instinct had been to ask that, but thankfully the small amount of emotional intelligence he had managed to accumulate over the past ten years kicked in, and he remained silent. Tony had done many things over the years that had made him irredeemable. He would be damned if he was about to add 'dumping his own insecurities on to the kid, hours before his death' to his list of reprehensible shit he'd done. Instead he had tried to hold in his own sobs, so the kid wouldn't know how his faith stabbed through Tony like a white-hot knife. He had held Peter a little tighter and pressed a kiss to the top of his head. In his ears, his own words whispered in his mom's voice offered some final advice.

' _You know what's about to happen. Say something. If you don't, you'll regret it.'_

He had told the kid that he loved him. Perhaps Peter's semi-conscious state gave Tony the courage to say it. He had never been good at talking about his feelings. Always, he deflected with humour whenever someone got too emotional, too _real_ , with him. It had undercut the few relationships he allowed in to his life more times than he could count. No matter how many times he had been burned by his own cowardice, he couldn't seem to change. It would seem that emotional revelations were reserved for the eleventh hour, and not a second sooner.

Tony had known for a long time that he loved the kid. He had never thought of it as love in so many words, but he knew. It was a slow realization on Tony's part, but after a while he began to see how Peter's presence shaped his life. It became more and more evident with each passing day. He still helped Pepper run Stark Industries. He still had responsibilities to follow up on after the accords were finalized. He was still the unofficial and reluctant leader of the, now, highly exclusive Avengers club. Laid out on a table, all those things were overwhelming. Coupled with the bitter sting left by Steve's betrayal and losing the team, they were unbearable. Or, they would have been if Pepper hadn't come back to him, and if Tony hadn't sought out a potential hero in Queens.

The kid's goofy presence took the edge off of the stress in Tony's life in a way that was uniquely unprecedented. He had found himself enjoying the time he spent with the kid. It didn't take long for obligatory once a month lab visits to become weekly welcomed ones. Peter would ramble on about his friends, school, and whatever nerdy thing had captivated his interest that week. Tony would listen while he worked, chiming his two cents in every now and then. Mostly he just took in the happy-go-lucky aura that seemed to accompany Peter wherever he went.

It was nice, having the kid around.

Peter provided him with a relief from the cold corporate world and the all the stuffy business men and government officials that he had to deal with on a daily basis. Lending his ear to listen to the kid's angsty teenager struggles was a nice change of pace. It was a change that Tony had never realized that he wanted or needed. Soon after, he had begun having vivid dreams of having a kid of his own. He knew that was Peter's doing. Before meeting him, Tony had scoffed at the idea of having children. No one wanted more of himself in the world, him least of all. But now, he wanted it more than anything.

Before this unwelcomed voyage in to space, having a family of his own had seemed like a possible future. It was within his grasp, to be happy again after everything that had happened. He had been about to finally move on with his life and wash his hands of that dumpster fire that had been the Avenger's fallout. Tony could see it so clearly when he closed his eyes. His family and a calm life framed by a white picket fence. All of it was waiting for him just behind the finish line.

But then, because life was just one cruel joke after another, that fugly chewed up bubble gum version of Squidward had shown up on Earth. And he was just the pregame for Thanos. Everything had descended so quickly in to hot garbage, and right in the middle of it all, Peter had stood by his side. Cause the kid, with his heart of gold, gave Tony unwavering loyalty that he didn't deserve.

Three hundred fifty.

Three hundred fifty-one.

Three hundred fifty-two.

' _So, if anything, it's kinda your fault that I'm here.'_

Tony couldn't stop thinking about Peter's cheeky little quip from back when he had discovered that the kid had stowed away on the donut space ship. Over the course of twenty-two days, those words looped in his mind countless times, haunting him more and more as Peter's body deteriorated. Peter had a tendency to place blame for things out of his control on himself. For once, the kid had accurately placed the blame on Tony.

It _was_ his fault that the kid was here, in space, dying in his arms. If Tony hadn't encouraged Peter to embrace the hero life, if he hadn't equipped him with a suit, if he hadn't _invited_ him to join the Avengers, Peter would've stayed far away from that battle in New York. Even someone as stupidly noble as Peter wouldn't dare to enter in to a galactic battle dressed only in sweat pants, a hoodie and goggles. He would've noped out of that situation so fast, and the fight against Thanos' ugly minions would have been left to the adults. He would have stayed with his class and gone to the Museum of Modern Art. He would have had to face the panic and anarchy that was undoubtedly running rampant across the universe, but at least he would have been alive.

If Tony had never gotten involved in Peter's life, he would have missed out on experiencing normalcy. The kid always acted as if he was the lucky one to get to spend time with Tony. Peter never realized, because Tony never told him, that it was really _him_ who was lucky to get to spend time with Peter. He had given Tony brief, shining moments of what it was like to have a kid. That was worth more than the monetary value of anything he had ever given Peter.

If Tony had never gotten involved in Peter's life, his own life would have lacked vibrancy. But, if Tony had stayed away, Peter would be standing on Earth right now. Breathing the copious amounts of air, drinking water that came for free out of a tap, and eating food from the bodega down the street.

Peter's life in exchange for Tony having never known him. Tony would make that trade in a heartbeat.

Four hundred nine.

Four hundred ten.

Four hundred eleven.

An oily curl clung to Peter's temple. Tony brushed it behind his ear and tried his best to not notice how, just an inch or so below his fingers, Peter's cheek bone showed prominently through his skin. He knew it was selfish of him to avoid looking at the life he had destroyed. A stronger man would have the courage to look at the consequences of his irresponsible actions. Despite his best efforts to be a good man, it would seem that a part of him would always remain selfish.

A brilliant light washed over Peter's features, casting the hollows of his eyes in shadow. The sight was unsettling, and Tony lifted his eyes up to see the source of the light shining through the window. For a moment, Tony squinted at a ball of harsh white light. After another moment, he was able to discern a figure in the center of it. A woman, emanating light like a miniature sun, smirked at him before disappearing below the window.

What the…

The Benatar jerked suddenly, and Tony clutched Peter tighter in response. Then, the ship was moving. Not as fast as it had been when the ship had fuel, but still very quickly. Stars whipped by in the distance, but Tony hardly noticed. He kept his eyes on the boy in his lap, who hadn't woken during the disturbance. He hadn't even twitched a muscle. Tony tried to smother the terror clawing at his chest by pressing his fingers more firmly on Peter's pulse.

Four hundred ninety.

Four hundred ninety-one.

Four hundred ninety-two.

"What was that?"

Tony jumped slightly at Nebula's sudden appearance near his chair. He hadn't heard her coming, but then again, he never did. The number of times that the cyborg had crept up on him during their time trapped together was, frankly, embarrassing. She was staring at him expectantly, waiting for an answer. Tony realized after a few seconds of searching that he had no idea what to tell her.

"I don't…" He trailed off, staring dumbfounded at the rushing stars and planets. His brain was fuzzy, but he was also pretty sure that even if he was firing on all cylinders, he wouldn't know how to explain this. Metal clinking on metal sounded in quick succession. Tony tore his gaze from the window to see Nebula standing with her arms crossed, drumming her fingers impatiently on her upper arm.

"How are we moving? Has something hit the ship?"

How to explain, without sounding crazy, that a little blonde human woman was under the ship and that she was, presumably, carrying it on her back? Tony's brain supplied an image of Atlas carrying the world, and he snorted with laughter. Nebula's eyes tightened in what Tony assumed was concern, but he couldn't stop laughing. A metal hand wrapped around his shoulder and shook him violently. On instinct, his arms wrapped more securely around Peter.

"Stop that. "Nebula ordered harshly. "This is no time to go in to shock. I need you to keep your wits about you in case we're not alone."

Well, that sobered him up. Tony glanced down at Peter's unconscious form as dread started to form in the pit of his stomach. He needed to stay sharp.

"Yeah, you're right." He muttered, and ran his hand that wasn't on Peter's pulse over his eyes in a vain effort to wipe away his fatigue. "Thanks for not slapping me in the face."

"Your cheekbone would likely break if I did."

Tony grimaced at the reminder. He might not be as physically weakened as the kid, but he wasn't doing so hot either. If the Benatar was boarded by some unsavory folks and it came down to a fight, there wouldn't be much that Tony could do to protect Peter. The realization of his own helplessness tasted acrid like bile. Tony squeezed his eyes shut and prayed to a God that he had never truly believed in. He prayed that the universe wouldn't so unfair as to play one final cruel joke on him. Death was death, he supposed. The end result was the same. But dying from suffocation was infinitely more preferable than dying at the hands of unfamiliar captors. Tony had already done the 'prisoner with merciless captors' song and dance before, in Afghanistan. The thought of Peter, already weakened and vulnerable, in that situation made him feel sick.

"How is the ship moving?"

Nebula's question broke Tony from his morbid train of thought. Something in her no-nonsense tone suggested that she wouldn't ask nicely again. Tony peeled open his tired eyes and took in Nebula's annoyed expression.

"There was a glowing lady that flew under the ship. She's pushing it, I guess. Or carrying it? I don't know." Tony mumbled. Nebula's black eyes narrowed slightly as she regarded him dubiously.

"A glowing lady?"

"Yeah."

"Floating in space?"

"Yeah."

"Was she wearing a space suit?"

"No."

"What about an Aero-Rig?"

"I don't know what that is." Tony admitted and leaned his head back against the chair's headrest. He was too exhausted to play twenty questions. "I might've been hallucinating. Who knows."

That was clearly not the answer that Nebula wanted to hear, if her pinched expression was anything to go by. She exhaled sharply through her nose before turning on her heel and disappearing from Tony's field of vision. He didn't need to ask where she was going. Twenty-two days isn't very long to get to know a person, but Tony knew Nebula well enough to know that she was already working out step five of their escape plan in her head. Behind him, he could hear her rummaging through the equipment and weapons that were kept near the outer door.

"Well, even if we are being taken somewhere unknown by possible captors, it's still better than our previous situation." Her voice floated to Tony as she approached his chair once more.

Tony turned to look at her and wasn't surprised in the least to see her sporting every possible weapon and armor that she could fit on her person. If Peter were awake, he wouldn't have been able to suppress his laughter like he had when they were playing paper football. He would have laughed at Nebula's overzealous preparedness. Tony didn't laugh. After everything that had happened, he no longer believed that there was any such thing as being 'over prepared'. He was never prepared enough for the reoccurring shit storms that life threw at him. Case in point, they were being abducted by someone strong enough to carry a whole freaking space ship, and Tony was not prepared to deal with this. Physically or mentally.

"You call this an improvement?"

"Yes." Nebula stated flatly without even turning to look at him. Her gaze remained focused on the window. On the proverbial horizon. "If we're being abducted by Ravagers or Scrapers, we'll just kill them and take their ship."

If only it were that simple. Tony wished he felt that confident. In his current condition, he doubted that he could go toe-to-toe against an angry kitten and win. He really couldn't see how he would be able to fight against aliens when he barely had the strength to stand.

"And if it's someone worse?" He asked and then cringed when his voice betrayed how nervous he was.

"We'll kill them anyway." She replied fiercely.

Maybe Nebula's determination would be enough to save them. To save Peter. Tony hated to admit it, but there was no way that he could protect his kid. Nebula really was the silver lining in this shitty situation. If Tony had to be stranded in space with anyone, he was glad that it was with a cyborg assassin turned friend.

"You'll have to do the heavy lifting for that." Tony admitted weakly. "I'm in no shape to do anything."

He shifted Peter's weight on his lap to alleviate the feeling of pins and needles in his leg. He was getting uncomfortable sitting like this, but he was also unwilling to let go of Peter. The kid was dead weight on his lap. If Tony were in prime fighting condition, he would have tucked Peter away somewhere safe until the adults were done throwing hands. But Tony was dead weight too, and he knew it. If this was how they were gonna go out, he wanted to be with his kid.

"Leave it to me."

Tony glanced up in surprise at Nebula's tone. It sounded… fond? Well, there was definitely a softness to it. It was lying just below the surface of her usual intense determination. Her metal features, hard to the touch and yet flexible enough to convey emotion, were usually guardedly blank or twisted in snarls of frustration. Her face was blank now as well, but Tony could see a warmth in her black eyes. If black could ever be considered warm.

Jeez. How had it come to this, that he was waxing poetry about a cyborg alien's eyes? Twenty-two days of isolation had changed him. It had made him soft.

No.

_Someone_ had made him soft. Tony glanced down at Peter's chest, which rose and fell with shallow breaths. The counting, which had carried on at the back of his brain during his and Nebula's conversation, was brought to the forefront of his mind again.

One thousand seven hundred and six.

One thousand seven hundred and seven.

One thousand seven hundred and eight.

* * *

Tony hated waiting.

You would think that after twenty-two days of nothing to do but wait for death, he would've become more patient. But, no, waiting still grated on Tony's nerves like sand paper. It just so happened that waiting for a fight, the calm before the storm, was the worst kind of waiting. Who decided to name this agonizing anticipation 'the calm before the storm' anyway? It was entirely misleading. There was nothing calm about it. It should be called 'internalized chaos and panic before the storm'. Sure, it didn't roll off the tongue quite as nicely, but it was honest at least. Tony's nerves were crackling like live wires, but his body lacked the energy or strength to fidget or pace, like he usually did while waiting. Not to mention, Peter was keeping him grounded.

In Tony's honest opinion, waiting was among the top ten worst things in life. So he completely understood Nebula's frustration. Her subtle twitching, shifting, and fidgeting. It was all completely understandable. That did mean that it wasn't annoying the shit out of Tony. He was about five seconds away from throwing something at her, regardless of the fact that she was his only ally at the moment. She had moved to stand at a vantage point which allowed her to see all of the exits and the window just by turning her head. In Tony's extreme left peripheral vision, he could see her head twitching in different directions every few seconds, like a bird. Or a blue jay. Tony took a steadying breath, in through his nose and out through his mouth.

Sixteen thousand eight hundred and twelve.

Sixteen thousand eight hundred and thirteen.

Sixteen thousand eight hundred and fourteen.

A long time had passed. Hours, certainly, but Tony wasn't sure how many. He was measuring time in pulse beats, since that was all that mattered now anyway. He counted Peter's pulses under his fingers, and he hoped that, on Earth, Pepper's pulse was also beating. He hoped, even though that was a dangerous thing to do, that the universe had granted him that kindness.

Tony's eyes stung again as unshed tears started to pool in them, and he hastily wiped them away with his free hand. His vision cleared and he blinked away the residual stinging that nagged at his eyes. He would probably never find out what happened to Pepper. Perhaps that was the kindness that the universe had granted him; ambiguity. He had no definitive proof that Pepper was dead, so he chose to believe that she was still alive.

Tony focused his vision on the passing stars and galaxies again. It was hypnotic in a way to see all the twinkling lights rushing past. Every now and then, planets would pass by that were close enough to be seen in greater detail. Some were barren while others held civilizations. Some were covered in only one type of biome and others had a smattering of all sorts. Those single biome planets were jarring to look at. Planets that were covered in only sand or ice or tropics. How was life sustainable on those planets? More over, how could anyone stand to live in such homogeneity? Well, maybe it was kinda dickish for Tony to think that. Those planets were home to someone, but not to him. The sight of all these strange little worlds, whizzing past the Benatar in seconds, made him homesick for his own hot mess of a planet.

His own fragile little blue marble. Home to a multitude of environments, cultures and self-destructive lifestyles. He would miss it, even with all of its flaws.

But then, Tony saw another blue marble in the distance. It was rapidly growing larger as the Benatar approached it. A big blue planet that Tony recognized from satellite pictures, but had never seen in person before.

Neptune.

They were going home.

Relief, slightly marred by trepidation, washed over Tony. It was so profound that he found himself blinking away tears once more. Relief because home was so close, and trepidation for the same reason. A part of him was waiting for that final rug pull. Waiting for Peter's life to slip through his fingers now that they were on the home stretch. Since passing out in Tony's arms, the boy hadn't moved a muscle or woken at all. Tony knew that organ failure preluded death in extreme cases of dehydration and starvation. They were within the solar system now, but they were still 2.77 billion miles from Earth. What if Peter couldn't hold on that long?

Tony scrubbed a hand over his face and tried in vain to banish the thought. He needed to stay focused on the positive. They were en route to go home and they knew now that the blondie under the ship was a friend instead of an enemy. Drawing a shaky breath, Tony turned to face Nebula.

"You can stand down now, Blue Man Group. I recognize that planet." He said while gesturing to Neptune. It was huge now and about three seconds away from passing by their ship. For a moment, Tony allowed himself to appreciate how breathtakingly beautiful it was. Satellite photos couldn't compare to the real thing. "That's Neptune, one of the planets in my neck of the woods. Rocket Man is taking us home."

Panic was still clawing at Tony's throat, but he could suppress it with humour. Just like always.

Despite Tony's reassurance that Nebula could relax, her posture became only slightly less rigid.

"You said the person under the ship was a woman." Nebula stated and Tony felt his eyes roll of their own accord. God, is this how the kid felt whenever his references fell on un-pop cultured ears? If Peter were awake, and not on death's doorstep, he would've laughed. He always did.

"Why you gotta nitpick my poor dehydrated and sleep deprived brain? Fine, whatever. Rocket _Woman_ is taking us home." He snapped back with as much snark as his tired brain could muster. A silence fell in the room, and Tony wished that Nebula would've risen to the bait and snapped back at him. It was too silent. Silence allowed his mind to stray back to the dwindling life in his lap. He couldn't tolerate that for another 2 billion miles. "Actually, you know what? I'm changing it back to Rocket Man." Tony added. Nebula sent him an annoyed glance before turning back to the window again. She didn't want to talk? Fine. Tony could ramble better than anyone. "It's sexist to change the title just cause the person I'm applying it to happens to be a woman. It's insensitive to gender fluidity-"

"Shut up, Stark."

There was a sharp finality to Nebula's voice, which successfully cut off Tony's rambling. Nebula was the strong silent type whereas Tony was more of a 'ramble on to smother the anxiety' kind of a guy. They didn't always mix. So Tony resigned himself to 2 billion miles of tortured 'what if' scenarios, and prayed that home would show up in the endless field of darkness soon.

* * *

Earth, from a distance, looked very unassuming. Like Neptune, Earth also looked just like the satellite photos that Tony had seen. Blue and green. Marbled with clouds. Half lit by the sun and the other half in darkness. It reflected none of the chaos and despair that Tony knew were wreaking havoc on every single remaining life. From a distance, Tony could almost pretend that Thanos and his destruction had been a fever dream.

Almost.

As they drew closer to the side of the Earth that was cast in darkness, Tony could already see evidence of the damage Thanos had inflicted upon the universe. Tony should have been able to see the lit-up outline of the United States as they descending in to Earth's atmosphere. The Eastern Seaboard especially had some of the highest concentration of light pollution because of densely populated cities. Now, they were all extinguished.

Half of all life was gone.

Tony had known that statement was true for the entirety of his time spent stranded in space, but now it was really sinking in. The sight of his planet, the one he had devoted the last ten years of his life to protecting, devoid of light was overwhelming. It gave scope to the horrible consequences of his failure. The Benatar might as well have existed in a bubble for these past twenty-two days. During that time, he could focus his energy on saving Peter. But now, they were home and the unavoidable fall out was waiting for him.

Survivors would be screaming for answers, and Tony had no idea what he would tell them. They would demand that Iron Man help them, and Tony wasn't sure if he could. Before Thanos, Tony had always considered himself and Iron Man to be intertwined. He and his larger than life persona were one and the same. Now, he wasn't sure if could still be both. Iron Man was one of Earth's mightiest heroes. He was a protector of an entire world and he held responsibility for every person's safety. But Tony Stark was just a man. A man with limitations who only had enough room in his heart to care about the safety of a few.

Twenty-five thousand two-hundred and sixty.

Twenty-five thousand two-hundred and sixty-one.

Twenty-five thousand two-hundred and sixty-two.

Tony glanced down from the sight of the Atlantic coast to look at his one accomplishment among a sea of failures. Peter was still alive. Tony had managed to get him home. Or rather, the human-ish woman carrying the Benatar did. Tony suspected that she was somehow connected to the Avengers, as it seemed that she was taking them to the compound in Upstate New York.

"So, this is Terra?" Nebula asked.

Tony glanced up to see her standing close to the widow. She had finally relaxed her posture. Well, it was mostly relaxed. Tony had only ever seen her truly at ease once before, when the kid had charmed her with his goofy eccentricities and metal foil origami. Her eyes were sweeping over the terrain outside the window, taking in as much information as possible. In the distance, Tony could see the familiar silhouette of the Avengers Compound against the night sky.

"Home sweet home." He mumbled. "I think our mysterious saviour is taking us to the Avengers compound."

Nebula threw a confused glance over her shoulder.

"Who are the-"

"My old team will be there." Tony continued with a hint of urgency to his voice. The compound was drawing near, and Tony didn't want to waste any time. He needed to get Peter to the Medical Bay immediately. "I need you to do me a solid." He added. Nebula turned her whole body to face him. "I need you to get Peter to the Medical Bay as soon as we land. Even if there's no one there to ask for directions, ask anyway. My AI will tell you where to go."

Nebula nodded her head and took long purposeful strides towards him. Her metal arms slid between his body and Peter's, lifting him off of Tony's lap abruptly. Tony's hand pulled away from Peter's pulse.

_Twenty-five thousand two-hundred and ninety_.

The number seared in to Tony's memory, as Peter's life was physically taken out of his hands. He had to trust now in the competence of others, and Tony hated that. He always had. He had always needed to do things himself in order to assure himself that they were done properly. When it came to important things, he only trusted a small handful of people to be capable enough to do them. In the time that they had known each other, Nebula had proven herself to be very capable. In addition to that, Tony had staffed the Medical Bay with the best doctors that his money could employ. Perhaps the worry in this instance wasn't about 'competence' but rather 'existence'. What if FRIDAY directed Nebula to the Med Bay, and no one was there? His entire staff having vanished over three weeks ago? Tony felt cold as the thought entered his mind. Without hesitating, his mind started to run through statistics, trying to calculate the odds of that happening. He didn't have enough data, and his brain was too fuzzy anyway. They would know what had happened soon enough.

Nebula hoisted Peter, none to gently, in to her arms. His head to rolled over on his shoulder and struck Nebula's metal chest with a soft 'clang'.

"Careful." Tony chastised angrily.

Nebula made no indication that she'd heard him. Instead she strode towards the door and waited for the ship to touch down. Panic grasped Tony's heart as he craned his head around to keep an eye on Peter. The top of his head was visible over Nebula's arm. Greasy curls quivered from the force of the ship touching down. Nebula shifted her grip on Peter in order to free one of her hands. She hit the button to open the door and lower the ramp. Without waiting for the ramp to fully descend, Nebula strode quickly out the door and out of Tony's sight. He needed to follow them. He needed to know that his kid would be okay. Bracing his hands on the chair's arm rests, Tony attempted to heave himself out of the chair. He only managed to raise himself up about two inches before his muscles gave out and he collapsed back in the chair.

No.

He needed to get up. His kid needed him and he needed to follow his kid.

' _I'll follow you. Anywhere.'_

A strangled choking noise echoed in the empty space ship. Once again, Tony was blinking back his tears. This was all so unfair. He couldn't follow his kid, cause his body was failing him. The Benatar, which had always seemed so small and made Tony feel claustrophobic, was suddenly too big. Too empty. For the first time in over three weeks, Tony was truly alone.

But that was fine. He could deal with being alone. He didn't need for there to be people in the Benatar. He needed people in the Compound. In the Med Bay. Because, surely, there had to be _someone_ , right? Someone to bring his kid back from the brink of death.

"Please.." Tony's ragged voice broke in his desperation. The silence greeted him with it's unwelcome presence. "Don't take my kid."

Heavy footsteps were coming from behind Tony's chair, and the sound of them instantly put him at ease. He knew those footsteps. He had spent years hearing them lumbering around the Avengers tower and the compound. Noisy, steady footsteps that always entered the room with a certain learned confidence that only America's most patriotic super soldier could pull off.

Steve Rogers ran in to Tony's field of vision, all disheveled and yet still familiarly clean cut. His wide blue eyes flickered over Tony's appearance, taking in his half-starved form. His face crinkled in that half-pitying half-worried kind of way that was uniquely Steve's. Tony had been on the receiving end of that look more times than he could count. Normally, that look would piss him off because he was always _fine_ before. Now, he just accepted it, cause he really did feel as terrible as Steve's look said that he should.

"Tony."

Just like that, two years of resentment disappeared. Tony had thought that if he ever saw Steve Rogers again he would go ahead and indulge his long held fantasy of punching him in his perfect teeth. He never expected that he would be glad to see him. After waiting for death to arrive for about three weeks, the sight of a familiar face was enough to make him forget old grudges.

"Hey, Steve."

* * *


	3. Things Fall Apart

Tony had never thought that he would see the day when Steve's innate leadership skills would fail him. Steve was 'the man with a plan'. Wasn't that his old war time moniker? The guy who instantly knew what to do, and executed commands in that 'no nonsense' tone. But the seconds ticked on and Steve made no move to help Tony to his feet. Today seemed to be that day. Steve stared at him as if he was seeing a ghost. Which, to be fair, Tony's sickly pale and thin form probably resembled one. But Tony had no time to wait for his old… colleague to compose himself. He had to get out of here and follow Peter. And he had to find out if Pepper was still…

Tony huffed sharply through his nose and tried to dispel the thought. It was simultaneously the thing that he had thought of the most during his time in space, and the thing he had tried to not think about at all. He held out his arm in a silent request, which snapped Steve out of whatever internal crisis he was going through. He grasped Tony's wrist firmly and pulled him up to his feet. Tony's vision started to tunnel and his head swam in a punch-drunk sort of way. Steve's arm wrapped around him and kept his steady as Tony blinked away the feeling and slowly adjusted to the change in elevation. Gradually, his vision became steady, and Steve's worried expression came in to focus again. The sight of it made Tony's chest tighten.

"I couldn't stop him." Tony admitted weakly. He wasn't sure why he felt the need to say that. His failure was obvious and while Tony had been isolated in space, Steve had been dealing with the fall out for three weeks. A crack appeared in Steve's composure and in his eyes, Tony saw raw grief and despair. It was accentuated by the shadows under his eyes and the blood shot veins reaching for his irises. The force of that concealed grief slammed in to Tony like an on coming semi-truck. He cringed reflexively and dropped his eyes to the metal floor of the ship.

"Neither could I."

The weight of those confessions hung heavily in the air. Neither one of them had been enough. Not individually anyway. Maybe if they had been together things would have turned out differently. A spark of anger ignited in Tony's chest, like the flickering flame of a match about to be thrown on gasoline.

No. Not now. Right now, he needed to get to Peter and, if possible, find Pepper.

"I need to get to the Med Bay," Tony said stiffly. He took a determined step towards the door and after a split second of hesitation, Steve matched his pace.

"Yes, of course." Steve muttered. "You need treatment."

They exited the ship and the night air hit Tony's face. It was crisp and frigid despite the fact that it was… June? It should be the first week of June, if Tony was keeping track of time right.

"No," Tony bit out. Had Steve seriously not seen a blue alien carrying a half-dead boy in her arms? Did he not understand that Peter's health took precedence? "Not me. I need-" His words died with a choking sound in his throat as his eyes took in the sight before him.

Pepper was _alive_.

The sight of her running towards him across the Compound's lawn, alive and whole, filled Tony with such a profound sense of relief that he would have collapsed if Steve hadn't been supporting him.

"Oh my God!" She cried and pulled him into her embrace. Tony breathed a shuddering sigh as he relished the warmth of her body against his. Tension that had been ever present, just under the surface, fell away. It was as if Tony had been holding his breath unknowingly for twenty-two days, and now he could finally breathe. His arms wrapped around her tightly, clutching her trembling form like a life line. He pressed a kiss to her temple, his lips lingering on her skin a moment longer than they would have three weeks ago. His nose pressed to her hair and Pepper's familiar scent filled Tony's breath.

"It's okay," He murmured against her skin, and finally broke away. It was a lie meant to comfort her. Nothing was okay right now. In fact, it was likely that things would never be okay again. But Tony felt the need to protect Pepper with the lie anyway. Even now, after the storm had hit and they were all left to drown in the flood. Comforting lies were all Tony had to offer her now.

Slowly, Pepper pulled away from him enough to wrap an arm around his back in order to give Tony more support. As they had started to walk up to the compound, Tony's eyes searched desperately for other familiar faces standing on the lawn.

Rhodey.

Natasha.

Where was Bruce?

Tony whipped his head around, searching for his old friend. Panic started to strangle him again as the gravity of Bruce's absence grew heavier with each passing second.

"Where's Bruce?" Tony asked hesitantly, fearing the answer that was about to come. Pepper's eyes widened as she turned her head to look at him.

"He's alive." She said quickly and Tony breathed another sigh of relief. This constant ebb and flow of fear and relief was really starting to get to him. He wasn't sure how much more his old ticker could take. But then Pepper's face crumpled in worry and Tony felt his body tense up in response. "He saw the state that Peter is in and ran down to the Medical Bay. Helen is… gone. Everyone else has left. He's all we got right now."

Once again, fear and relief, with a slap of grief for good measure. Tony's steps staggered under him and Steve and Pepper's arms tightened around him. Each emotional blow hit him in quick succession, like turbulent ocean waves. Fear that Bruce had been lost again, when Tony had only just gotten him back. Relief that his friend had immediately tended to Peter's health. For that, Tony knew that he would always be indebted to him. Grief for his colleague, who's ashes clung to Tony's hands along with billions of others. Helen Cho, who was one of the greatest minds of her generation, had signed on to be the Avengers' Doctor knowing that it would likely place her in danger. Hell, it already had when Tony had created Ultron. The world had been under Iron Man's protection, but she had been under Tony's protection once she had signed the contract. He had always tried his best to keep his people safe.

What a joke.

Tony couldn't protect anyone. He was insignificant compared to the strength and might of aliens. Not for the first time, Tony was left to consider his dad's old philosophy. The one that he had passed down to him and which he had framed his weapons manufacturing company around.

_Peace means having a bigger stick than the other guy._

Well, Earth was the 'other guy' now. The guy with the little stick. Hell, they were carrying a twig by comparison to the forest that resided in space. They were terribly vulnerable with their inferior tech. As he had confessed to Pepper after his first brush with alien forces, he was just a man in a can. At one time, he had thought that if he worked hard enough, if he devoted all of his effort in to protecting the Earth, he could save it. The only thing that truly mattered was the outcome of the fight. He had lost. All of that time he had devoted to building a suit of armor around the world, protecting it, it had all been for nothing. He had wasted six years of his life preparing for a fight that he would lose. He should have spent those six years focused on what he couldn't live without.

Pepper.

Rhodey.

Peter.

Happy.

His family. But wait… he hadn't seen Happy yet. Tony stomach dropped as he realized this. He stopped dead in his tracks, leaving Steve and Pepper to stagger one step forward before stopping. Tony looked to Pepper for answers, as he always did.

"Is Happy…"

Tears flooded Pepper's blue eyes, though she tried her best to blink them back before they spilled over on to her cheeks. It was answer enough for Tony.

"He's gone too." She said in a choked voice before turning forward and pressing on. She subtly wiped her free hand over her eyes and Tony noticed how it trembled.

Happy had been employed as Tony's body guard around the same time that Pepper had become his personal assistant. For the longest time it had been a three-person effort between Happy, Pepper, and Rhodey to ensure that Tony didn't wind up in jail or dead. Happy had always grumbled and griped that Tony didn't pay him enough for the crap he had to put up with, and Tony agreed. He could never repay him with money alone. He had owed him so much more. Tony felt his throat constrict.

Steve and Pepper slowly brought Tony down to the Med Bay. The walk felt longer than normal, and the time was passed in sombre silence. Tony's head throbbed and he felt weary to his bones. But he kept his slow and steady pace. One foot in front of the other, because Peter needed him. And he needed Peter. The Med Bay doors slid open quietly and Pepper pushed him down in to the closest wheel chair. Sometimes, it was scary how well she knew him. She knew that her attempts to get him to lie down in a bed would be futile.

The Med Bay was much more spacious than Tony remembered it being. He knew that was ridiculous. It's not as if the room magically grew in size since the last time he had been here. Tony had been personally involved the construction of the Avengers Compound. He had looked over all of the blue prints and designs. He could rattle off all the useless statistics that described this room. How many square feet the floor was. The length, height, and depth of the walls. Where the electrical wiring was concealed behind drywall. The Med Bay was exactly as it was three weeks ago, and at the same time so different. It was larger. It echoed when any noises were made.

Tony realized with his stomach plummeting what was different about it.

It was _hollow_.

Without its usual medical staff bustling around, it was a shell. The lack of people made it look bigger than normal. Suddenly, the full weight of his failure hit him. Bile crept up his throat and Tony had to choke it back down. The evidence of his failure was staring him in the face. The empty room that held only five survivors. The echoes were haunting. Their presence reminding him of his inability to protect anyone.

Tony's clenched his eyes shut and pinched the bridge of his nose between his thumb and forefinger. He had to focus on what remained, or he would go crazy. He opened his eyes and they immediately found Peter. The only patient in the overly large room. Bruce was working over him. An IV already attached to his arm and fluids dripping in to him. Peter was all skin and bone. Fragile and frail in every conceivable way. Over the course of his mentoring, the kid had wound up in this room more times than Tony would care to admit. Each time leaving Tony's hair a little more gray than the last. But Peter had never looked this terrible before. He had always been conscious before. He would babble away bullshit reassurances that fell on Tony's deaf ears.

" _I'm okay, Mr. Stark, really. The bullet just grazed me."_

" _C'mon, Mr. Stark! The building wasn't even that tall. I'm totally fine. Don't call Aunt May!"_

" _See? It's just a hairline fracture. Karen got you worried over nothing. My healing factor will take care of it and my leg will be good as new in the morning. No need to bother Dr. Cho."_

Thank God, Tony had had the foresight to program the AI in Peter's suit to disregard the boy's requests if he was hurt. If it were up to Peter, he would pull a black knight, looking at his severed arm on the ground while declaring that it was 'just a flesh wound'. Tony grinned ruefully at the thought. The kid with his endless geyser of pop culture references was rubbing off on him. The smile quickly fell from his face because, really, nothing was funny about this situation. Not a damn thing.

Someone had wheeled Tony over to Peter's bed side, but Tony wasn't sure who it was. His attention was focused solely his kid. He took Peter's hand in both of his, only letting go long enough for Bruce to slip and IV in to his own arm. Tony held Peter's thin hand in both of his. From the kid's other arm, an IV line split in to two drip bags. One with saline, the other a bag of nutrients. The same stuff fed in to Tony's arm, because they were in the same boat. Tony was just a little better off than Peter was. On his shoulder, Pepper's hand gripped his shoulder gently. Its warmth and weight reassuring him that one of his greatest fears hadn't come to pass.

"He's going to be okay." Pepper had murmured in to his ear, but Tony had barely heard her. A heavy weight was pressed over his chest and he was struggling against it just to breathe.

Voices started speaking. Soft requests for him to rest, but he couldn't. It was impossible. His eyes itched with tiredness, and a headache was pounding behind his eyes, but still he refused to sleep. Peter wasn't out of the woods. Not yet. Even though Tony was completely useless here, and he had faith in Bruce's medical capabilities, he knew that he wouldn't be able to sleep until Peter was awake. So he would wait.

More voices spoke, but this time they were talking around him rather than to him.

"FRIDAY, get me another reading on his temperature."

"102.4 degrees Fahrenheit. Given Mr. Parker's extremely dehydrated state, I would recommend checking his kidney functionality."

Tony winced at that and clutched Peter's brittle hand a little tighter.

"Who is he?"

"Peter Parker. He's been mentoring under Tony for almost two years."

"And by 'mentoring', you mean-"

"Of the hero variety. Yes."

"He seems a little young to be-"

"Not now, Steve."

That one smarted too, because Steve was absolutely right. Peter was too young for all of this, and Tony had been unbelievably selfish to pull him into this kind of life. Steve had mercifully gone silent and shortly after, he left the Med Bay.

Time ticked on. Minutes turning in to hours. Or maybe it just felt like hours. Tony had never been a patient man. He remained at his post, only looking up when Pepper's hand left his shoulder. He watched her figure leave the room and then return with a granola bar and a bottle of water.

"Remember to take care of yourself too," she muttered and pressed a kiss to his temple.

"I'm fine." He said reflexively, but accepted the food and drink from her anyway. He put the bottle in his lap and held the granola bar in his hands. His finger tips ran idly along the rippled edge of the foil wrapper. He knew that he should try to eat it, but the though of putting anything in his stomach made it lurch in protest. He was distracted from his internal struggle by the rough sound of chair legs being scrapped across linoleum. Tony glanced up to see Pepper inching a chair close to his side and sit down in it. She leaned back in it with a tired air that made Tony feel a bit guilty. "You should sleep," he added. Pepper lifted her eyes to meet his and smiled with little humour.

"That's my line."

Tony chuckled at the reminder of all the sleepless nights he had spent disregarding Pepper's nagging at him to sleep. And eat. And really, just maintain himself as a person. God, how had she put up with him for so long?

"I'm right where I want to be," she added softly and her eyes drifted over to Peter's face. Blank and sunken in his unconscious state. Some colour had returned to his skin, but the small improvement wasn't strong enough to banish the guilt from Tony's mind.

Tony dropped his eyes back to the granola bar in his hands. He fiddled with it to give his hands something to do, but it did nothing to distract his mind from the avalanche of worrying thoughts. He worried about what Peter's state of health would be, both physically and mentally, after he woke up. He had faith that Peter's healing factor and medical treatment could recover his health, but what if there were long term effects from nearly starving to death? Christ, May Parker would kill him if…

Oh, God.

The granola bar fell from Tony's hands and landed softly on his lap. A cold sweat break over his skin and his pulse was almost audible in his ears.

"Pep," he croaked before clearing his throat. Pepper's hand came to rest on his forearm and he placed his own hand over top of it. The warmth of her hand gave him strength and he raised his eyes to meet her worried blue ones. "Do you know if May Parker is-" Pepper shook her head before he had even finished his question. Her lips pressed in a thin line, as she always did when she was trying to keep her emotions in check. Tony's heart sunk in to the depths of his chest.

Half of all life erased from existence. Why did May Parker have to be a part of that half? Peter had already lost his parents and his uncle in the course of his young life. Why did he have to lose May as well? The kid was too young to be dealing with this. Too young to have lost so much. This loss would devastate him. Not just because he had lost the woman who was practically his mom, but also because of the nature of her death. Tony knew that Peter would feel responsible for it, and that was the reaction that Tony was dreading the most. Peter shouldered too much burden. Too much responsibility and guilt for things that he couldn't have prevented. It was the same, Tony suspected, for his uncle's death as well. Although they had never spoken about the death of his Uncle Ben, Tony knew that Peter also felt responsible for his death. Tony had read the police report before he made that first trip to Queens to recruit him. Tony knew that Peter had been there and held his uncle as he bled out from a gun shot wound. He could piece those facts together with Peter's voice and body language whenever the conversation turned to his uncle.

"It's gonna be hard for him when he wakes up." Pepper said softly, breaking Tony's train of thought. He didn't turn to look at her, but he could feel her eyes on him. Taking in his reaction cautiously. He placed his hand over Peter's. His larger hand shielding his smaller one.

"I don't know how I can tell him, Pep. He's already lost so much."

"But he hasn't lost everything."

Well, that was certainly true. Tony would always be there for Peter. He would shield him from as much of the cruelty that the universe threw, for as long as he could. Tony's mind was already made up; Peter would live with him. Now he just had to find a way to get Pepper on board with the idea.

"He's still got us. We gotta make sure that he knows that," Pepper added. Tony whipped his head around to look at her, hardly daring to believe his ears.

"Us?"

Pepper rolled her eyes in that way that she always did when she was annoyed and yet still endeared by him.

"Yes, Tony. Us. We've been an 'us' for a long time. The marriage contract is just a formality."

Huh.

Tony had thought that it would take some time to convince her to take in a teenager. That was the sort of thing that most people took a long time to consider, right? Tony thought it was. He himself had a long history of impulsive decision making, and Pepper had been there for most of them, urging him to reconsider. Maybe, she was finally worn down by twenty years of his antics. Or maybe, Tony was absolutely transparent and she already knew how much he loved Peter. Both explanations seemed equally possible.

"So, you're okay with him living with us?" Tony asked hesitantly. "I know it's unconventional, and you two don't really know each other-"

"So we'll get to know each other," she stated firmly. Her voice was strained with emotion and yet still carried the same commanding ring that was present whenever she was trying to establish something. She leaned forward to place her hand over Tony's and give it a slight squeeze. Their hands formed a small pile. Peter's below Tony's below Pepper's. "He's coming home with us."

For a moment, Tony was speechless. Emotion robbed him of his voice. God, he loved this woman so much. She was perfect because she understood him in a way that no one else did.

"You're something special, Miss Potts."

A small tired smirk crossed her face as she leaned back in to her seat again.

"Don't you forget it."

They sat together in companionable silence for a time. Tony was starting to feel a little better as the saline and nutrients did their work. Of course, it did nothing to ease his fatigue, but he found that he could nibbled at the granola bar cautiously. Eventually, he managed to finish it and he drank some of the water. Pepper had moved to lie down on one of the hospital beds and within seconds, soft snores could be heard in the otherwise silent room. Tony wanted to do the same. The headache behind his eyes was more intense with each passing hour. But he made a promise to himself. He had to wait.

Footsteps approached from Tony's side and he glanced over to see Bruce reading a chart in his hands. He glanced up from it once he reached Tony's side.

"His kidney functionality is back within a good margin," Bruce said. The confidence in his tone was reassuring. Tony closed his eyes as relief washed over him. His whole body deflated like one giant exhaling breath. "He's gonna be fine, Tony. Maybe you should consider getting some sleep too."

A smirk played at Tony's mouth at the sound of Bruce's tone. Cautious and exasperated all at once. They had only been reunited for a couple hours and already he could tell that his friend was done with his shit. Good old Bruce. Tony had really missed him.

"Yeah, I'll get some shut eye in a little bit," Tony said while opening his eyes, like a tiny, passive-aggressive act of rebellion. Bruce's tired face came in to view just in time for Tony to see him roll his eyes. Wow. Two eye rolls in a couple of hours? It was nice to see that Tony hadn't lost his talent for annoying people while he was lost in space.

Bruce's face suddenly adopted an expression that Tony was deeply familiar with. His eyes became both focused and distant as he became lost in thought. His eyes searched Tony's face before he turned to glance at Peter.

"Is he…" Bruce trailed off flicking his glance back towards Tony.

"What?"

Bruce shook his head slightly and Tony could see him trying to suppress his curiosity. 'Trying to' being the key term here. They were scientists. For them, curiosity was never something that could be dispelled completely.

"Nothing, it's none of my business."

Tony realized what Bruce wanted to ask, and it twisted like a knife in his stomach.

"No, he's not my son," Tony muttered. It was the truth. He loved Peter like his own son, but it would be wrong of him to try to pass himself off as the kid's dad. Not when he had already had a father and an uncle who were much better fathers than Tony could ever hope to be. He had never met them, but the proof of their good parenting was present in Peter. In his exemplary code of ethics. His unshakable faith in people, no matter how many times he had been screwed over. Tony could never create someone that was so good.

"But you care about him enough to take him in," Bruce stated with some of that irrepressible curiosity seeping in to his voice. He was dancing around the edges of a topic that Tony wasn't sure he wanted to talk about. Not with Bruce anyway.

"Eavesdropping is rude, Brucie," he said with some of his usual snarky humour.

"It's not eavesdropping when the room is quiet and the two of you forget that I'm still here," Bruce said while nodding in Pepper's direction.

"I didn't forget. I just got bigger things to worry about than starting office gossip." Tony quipped back. Bruce raised his eyebrows a fraction and a heavy silence fell between them. It didn't last long. Just long enough for Tony to start to feel guilty. Bruce was one of the few people in the compound that he wasn't pissed at. He really shouldn't be such a prick to one of his last remaining friends. "Yeah, I care. I care a lot," he admitted with a tired shrug. As if his attempt at nonchalance would be able to convince Bruce that he hadn't turned in to a total softie while Bruce had been MIA for three years. Bruce's eyes regarded him with a more thoughtful expression. Before Tony could wonder too much about it, the doors to the Med Bay slid open. Rhodey took long determined strides in to the room.

"Steve's calling a meeting," Rhodey said softly, his eyes darting between Pepper and Peter's sleeping forms. While Tony appreciated his effort to not wake anyone, his words reignited that old match flame. The one that was just begging to be thrown on gasoline. To grow and rage on for no purpose other than to burn the air.

Of course Steve was trying to get the band back together. Why wouldn't he? Sure, he had bailed on the Avengers and had been living incognito for two years. But Steve was the leader of the Avengers, gosh darn it. Of course, he could come on back and slip in to his old role of team leader like an old glove. It was just so… Steve. He was the man with a plan, even after the game was lost.

"Can't it wait? He hasn't really rested at all," Bruce asked and Tony felt a rush of fondness for one of the last people in his corner.

"Well, who's fault is that?" Rhodey asked sarcastically. Rhodey wasn't much of an eye roller, and never had been. But still, the annoyance was there and that was what counted. Damn, Tony was three for three today. If being a pain in the ass was an Olympic sport, he would be a gold medalist.

"I'm busy," Tony grumbled, turning his eyes back towards Peter and effectively shutting Rhodey out. Hopefully, he would take the hint.

"He's not going anywhere," Rhodey said with a softer edge to his voice. Tony could recognize when his friend was handling him with kid gloves. It was an ongoing dynamic in their friendship. One that he never cared for.

"Doesn't matter. I'm not leaving him alone."

"I'm gonna stay with him, Tony. He won't be alone," Bruce interjected and Tony cast him an annoyed scowl. Whose side was he on anyway? "If you're not gonna sleep then you should get filled in on what's been happening."

"I already _know_ what happened; We lost. End of story. Meeting not required."

Rhodey gave an aggravated sigh through his nose and crossed his arms.

"C'mon, man. Don't make this difficult."

Tony laughed a humourless laugh at that. Sometimes, it was like Rhodey didn't know him at all.

"Nice to meet you, stranger. I'm Tony."

Well, that seemed to be the tipping point on Rhodey's bullshit tolerance levels. Without a word, he uncrossed his arms, strode behind Tony's wheelchair and grabbed on to the handlebars.

"Hey!" Tony reached his arm around to slap at Rhodey's hand. It was, admittedly, a pathetic, wimpy slap. Tony really didn't have the energy for a more forceful one. Rhodey ignored him and pushed the chair towards the Med Bay door. Behind them, Tony could see Bruce give him a little wave. Tony turned back around in a huff.

Jerks.

Nervousness was building in Tony's chest the further they went from the Med Bay. He honestly couldn't tell if it was nervousness over leaving Peter before he had regained consciousness, or nervousness over seeing his old team again. Seeing Steve again. Steve who had made a choice, the result of which had left him beaten and bloody in Siberia.

' _He's my friend.'_

' _So was I.'_

Tony's headache gave a particularly painful throb as he remembered that day. It was probably for the best that he not open old wounds. There was time enough for that later, he expected. He needed to think of something else. He needed to get Rhodey talking to him again.

"Can't believe this," Tony grumbled half-heartedly. "Being manhandled by my best friend."

"No one's manhandling your skinny ass. I'm chair handling you."

"Yeah, that's a really important distinction," Tony snapped back. He was greeted with silence. Rhodey wasn't rising to the bait, so Tony would just have to poke him with a stick some more. "Well, you've really opened my eyes. I now realize that I got two pet peeves; being handed things and being physically moved while my body is too weak to do anything about it."

"I know, after everything that went down with the accords and Siberia, you don't want to talk to them. But it's gotta happen."

Rhodey's words rang in the empty hallway even though he was speaking rather quietly. Tony's breathing hitched and his witty come back died in his throat. So, this was it. The reunion with the old team. Tony really didn't know what to expect when he and Rhodey reached the meeting room. What do you say to people who you haven't seen in years? Who you had a huge falling out with? Tony guessed it didn't really matter. This wasn't a social call. This was Steve trying to fix something that was broken beyond repair. And for what? It was over. It had all played out almost exactly as Tony had seen in his vision. Thanos had wrought his destruction and there was nothing left to do.

The doors to the meeting room slid open. Steve, Natasha and Rocket Man talked with their heads together in hushed tones. The conversation halted abruptly as all eyes turned to look at Tony. It wasn't the first time that Tony had awkwardly walked in to a conversation about himself. But for some reason, seeing his former friends whispering about him behind their hands kinda pissed him off.

"Don't mind me," Tony called out while waving his hand in a nonchalant manner. "Pretend like I'm not even here. Carry on with the office gossip."

Steve broke away from the trio and walked cautiously nearer to Tony. It was then that Tony noticed the names and faces of everyone who had vanished being projected above the meeting table. Tony simultaneously felt his stomach clench and his blood boil, but he couldn't look away. Who was the masochistic bastard who decided to parade the names and faces of those that Tony had failed to protect?

"Tony, no one was talking about-"

"I'm joking," Tony cut off Steve bluntly. He wanted to get this over with. Wanted to get away from Steve and his stupid patronizing voice. Tony's brand of dark humour would just draw out the meeting longer than it needed to be. "Jeeves rolled me in here cause I gotta get debriefed on the past three weeks. So, what's the word?"

The shift in Tony's tone took everyone by surprise, but only for a moment. They were used to his shifting moods by now.

"Its been twenty-three days since Thanos came to Earth," Steve said in that sure and confidant manner. If Tony closed his eyes, he could imagine that this was a debriefing for taking down a Hydra base and not the end of the world.

"World governments are in pieces," Natasha continued while Tony rubbed a tired hand over his eyes. He watched the holographic profiles flash before his eyes. After a moment, he realized that he was searching for Clint, who wasn't present at the table. "The parts that are still working are trying to take a census."

Scott Lang's holographic face faded away and was replaced with Peter's. Tony's stomach lurched and all of the breath was stolen from his lungs.

"What the hell is this?" Tony wanted to shout, but really it came out like a wheeze as he struggled to gain his breath again. Peter's face morphed in to the Wakandan Princess's.

Peter was _fine_. He was back in the Med Bay, where Tony had left him, recovering and in Bruce's care. Tony knew that, but seeing Peter among the vanished felt like a waking nightmare.

"Sorry…" Natasha rushed out as she hastily made a holographic key board appear and typed something into it. "We thought that-"

"Yeah, I know what you thought." Tony bit out. "Twenty-three days is a long time, but it looks like you guys jumped the gun a bit. Am I in this too?"

Guilt and embarrassment were palpable in the room. Everyone avoided Tony's searing gaze. Tony had always thought that if he ever got the chance to verbally tear his old team mates a new one, it would be really satisfying. The kind of satisfying that would ensure that he slept better at night. Instead, he just felt sick.

"Thanos did exactly what he said he was going to do," Natasha continued hesitantly. "He wiped out fifty percent of all living creatures."

The dull throbbing behind Tony's eyes was growing. He needed to hurry this along.

"Where is he now? Where?"

"We don't know," Steve said. "He just opened a portal and walked through."

Well, that was entirely unhelpful. Tony wasn't even sure why he had asked. There was no fixing this anyway. He sighed and ran a hand over his brow. He noticed, for the first time, that Thor was sitting alone in a room separated by a glass wall. He looked different with his shorn Goldilocks hair. Were his eyes different colours? That might have been a trick of the light. Still, his friend was alive. Tony felt relief ease over his headache like a balm.

"What's wrong with him?" Tony asked. He wasn't about to get sappy around Steve or Natasha, so he resorted back to his usual snarky tone.

"Ah, he's pissed," an unfamiliar voice called out. Tony looked around for the source and saw a racoon dressed in clothing staring at him with intelligent eyes. "He thinks he failed. Which, of course, he did. But there's a lot of that going around, ain't there?"

What the...

Idly, Tony wondered why it was less surprising to see a blue cyborg alien speaking than a common raccoon. It's official. Nothing makes sense anymore.

"Honestly up until this exact second, I thought you were a Build-a-Bear."

"Maybe I am," the racoon replied with a shrug.

"We've been hunting Thanos for three weeks now," Steve continued, paying no mind to Chip 'n' Dale. Oh, wait. Those were squirrels, not raccoons. God, could this just be over already? "Deep space scans, satellites, and we've got nothing. Tony, you fought him-"

"Who told you that?" Tony bristled. "I didn't fight him. No, he wiped my face with a planet while the Bleeker Street Magician gave away the store. That's what happened. There was no fight, because… because he beat me."

"Okay," Steve said placatingly. Tony felt his hackles rising in anticipation of the questions that he knew were coming. "Did he give you any clues- any coordinates, anything?"

There it was. The reason why Tony had been summoned here and taken from his kid's side. This, right here. Of course, they wanted to pick his brain. Cause really, that was all he was useful for, right? He was the mechanic. The fix-it guy. The brains behind the operation. The team would pick and choose when they wanted to listen to him. Wasn't it just bitter-sweet irony that no one had listened to him before, and now they were running to him for help?

"I saw this coming a few years back. I had a vision. I didn't want to believe it. Thought I was dreaming," Tony admitted and ran a hand over his mouth. Steve's expression showed a twinge of annoyance at his rambling. Good.

"Tony, I'm gonna need you to focus-"

"And I needed you," Tony said icily. A small flutter of a flinch crossed Steve's face. "As in past tense. That trumps what you need – it's too late, Buddy. Sorry." Finally, he had said the thing he had been wanting to say for years. He allowed himself to let go and drop the match. Fire meets gasoline. There was something dangerously satisfying about that combination.

No one on the team had ever fully appreciated the gravity of the threat that aliens posed. Ever since the battle of New York, back in 2012, Tony had dedicated all of his effort in to staving off the imminent annihilation of the human race. The threat, as it had turned out, had only been half of an annihilation. A demi-annihilation? Half of all life, everywhere, gone. In the years leading up to Thanos' attack, Tony had hoped that the team would finally work with him rather than against him. They didn't. They had squabbled and bickered over rights, freedoms, and control. No one had wanted to see the bigger picture, and now this apocalyptic nightmare was their future.

"You know what I need?" Tony asked while knocking over a bowl on the table. The metal clanked loudly on the hard wood table, causing everyone to jump. Adrenaline and rage fueled his body, making the effort to rise to his feet less strenuous than it should have been. "I need a shave. And I believe I remember telling, all of you, alive or otherwise-" Tony interrupted himself in order to pull the IV out of his arm. "That what we needed was a suit of armor around the world." Vaguely, his mind registered that he was yelling. Everyone was watching him like a rabid dog about to bite. "Remember that? Whether it impacted our precious freedoms or not. That's what we needed."

"Well, that didn't work out did it?" Steve asked rhetorically. Tony's insides clenched and his head was pounding with the thrum of his circulating blood.

How fucking dare he.

"I said we'd lose," Tony continued, fighting to keep his voice level. "You said 'we'll do that together too'. Well guess what Cap? We lost. And you weren't there." Steve at least had the decency to look ashamed at that. "But that's what we do, right? Our best work after the fact? We're the Avengers. We're the Avengers? Not the Pre-vengers, right?"

Rhodey stepped up to Tony and placed his hands on his shoulders and upper arms.

"Okay. You made your point, just sit down-" He said while trying to push Tony back to his wheel chair. Well, that was just Rhodey's way, wasn't it? He was the peace keeper. The one who tried to steer Tony away from the cliff before he drove straight off of it. This wasn't a drunken birthday party. This wasn't a press conference. This wasn't a court appearance. Tony was having none of his peace keeping bullshit today. This meeting, this combustion, was a long time coming, and no one could keep Tony at bay.

"Okay, no, no-" Tony pushed passed Rhodey. "Here's my point. Y'know, she's great right now." He gestured toward Rocket Man who looked surprised to be included in this fight. "We need you, you're new blood. Bunch of tired old mules. I got nothing for you Cap." He spat as he reached Steve. "I got no coordinates, no clues, no strategies, no options, zero, zip, nada. No trust, _liar_."

Tony was done. Done with Steve and done with this thankless job. Maybe the team would be able to find Thanos. Maybe they would succeed and avenge the fallen. But they would do it without him. Tony would have no part in this anymore.

"Here, take this," Tony said as desperation and terror started to claw at his throat. With one hand, he reached under his shirt and ripped off his arc reactor. He grabbed Steve's hand and slapped it in to his open palm. "You find him, you put that on. You hide."

Steve's face was falling in to that punchable combination of pity and worry. Tony didn't have the energy to dwell on it. His adrenaline was fading along with his rage. Nothing was sustaining him now. His head felt like it was about to burst. No, it was about to combust. His vision was tunneling again. A delayed sharp pain shot through his knees as he fell to them.

"Tony!"

"I'm fine," Tony said because it was the truth. He didn't need these guys. Through some divine intervention, Tony had managed to hold on to his tiny, fragile family. He would be fine because he had them. He was always fine.

Tony was already unconscious as his body fell to the floor.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Two things: 1) this is the only time that I'm going to take an entire conversation verbatim from the movie (as oppose to a line or two). I kept the team meeting the same word for word because Tony's verbal smack down is a thing of beauty. 2) things diverge from canon plot here (some land mark moments I'm keeping, but for the most part I'm doing a major re-write).   
> Thanks everyone for your kind comments and support!


	4. Parting Ways

Peter feels heavy.

Like a rock. Heavy and immobile. Trapped under the weight of something. Something holding him down. It isn't uncomfortable, and so, Peter pays it no mind.

He sleeps.

But there's something else. A nagging feeling. It's persistent and sharp. Pangs hit him and make him ache. But Peter is tired. He doesn't care.

He sleeps.

There's a feeling. A feeling like he should be worried. Worried about what? It twists unpleasantly like fog around his mind and adds another layer of discomfort. Peter ignores it.

He sleeps.

A voice whispers in his head, the same thing. Again and again. But Peter can't make sense of it. It's just noise. Noise that hides when Peter tries to chase after it. It grows louder and he can't ignore it anymore.

' _I love you, kid.'_

Meaning. That sentence has meaning and it strikes Peter like a slap.

He wakes.

* * *

Light burned into Peter's eyes. He clenched them shut and felt tears well up in the seam of his eyelids. They stung at his skin and wetted his eyelashes. The darkness behind his eyelids was soothing and the temptation to drop over the edge and back in to unconsciousness was strong.

' _I love you, kid.'_

That was Mr. Stark's voice. Mr. Stark had told him that he loved him. A warmth bloomed in Peter's chest as that realization hit him full force. It was strong and it momentarily quelled the deep ache that emanated from Peter's stomach and settled in to his bones. It was a feeling that often accompanied midnight hot cocoa with Aunt May while they talked out his problems. Or late night movie watching with Uncle Ben, when they would curl up on the couch and become completely engrossed in the plot of the movie.

Total contentment. A unique brand of happiness that couldn't be found anywhere else. Lately, Peter had found that same feeling wrapping around him like a blanket whenever he worked in amicable silence with Mr. Stark in his lab. Not speaking, just existing in the same space and bopping his head along to Led Zeppelin. Somewhere between the silences and their conversations, he had grown to love Mr. Stark like a father. Peter had thought that the feeling was one-sided because it had seemed impossible that someone as intimidating and unapproachable as Mr. Stark could care for Peter in the same way that Peter did for him. Even the softer side of Mr. Stark, which Peter saw from time to time, was not very sentimental.

But, wait. That's right. Mr. Stark wasn't sentimental. He liked Peter. Peter knew that already. But to say that he loved him…

What had they been doing?

Panic swiftly chased away that warm feeling as Peter tried to think. Hazy memories floated through his mind. Were they in the lab? That didn't seem right. There was a bus. A yellow school bus. A field trip and… Ned. That was clearer, but still not right. What came after that? Mr. Stark had said that he loved him. Peter could hear it clearly in his mind. But why couldn't he remember the rest? It was all muddled and dark. What were they doing before that?

Peter huffed an aggravated sigh. His watering eyes prickled uncomfortably, so he raised his hands to wipe the wetness away. Bony finger tips pressed in to his eyelids and Peter felt his stomach drop.

His fingers were bony. They were bony because he was starving. No. He _is_ starving. And so is Mr. Stark. Peter snapped his eyes open and stared wide eyed in to the bright ceiling lights. He allowed the light to pierce his eyes. His eyes stung and watered again. It hurt, which meant he was alive. Alive while others were not, because they had failed…

Titan.

Space.

_Ash._

A barren planet filled with crumbling ruins. Peter was there. He could feel the gravitational pull of this strange planet. It was much lighter than the gravitational pull on Earth. Peter curled his fingers in to the soft surface below him, for fear that his body would float away. He could feel, rather than see, the presence of others around him. Peter knew that if he tilted his head to the side, if he stopped looking up, he would see them crumbling in to nothing. Just like the ruin structures surrounding them. Maybe it would be Dr. Strange. Or the bald and gray alien. Or that other human that Peter shared a name with. A choking sound filled the air. After a short moment, Peter realized that it was him making the noise. His lungs felt as though they would collapse.

"Hey, there. It's okay." A calming voice came from Peter side, but he didn't turn his head to look at it. The fear of watching another person crumble in to ash kept him paralyzed. "Everything's okay. You're safe and in the Avengers Medical Bay." The voice continued, and a face entered in to Peter's line of sight. A very familiar face. The crows feet around Bruce Banner's eyes deepened as he peered down at Peter. Why was Dr. Banner here on Titan? The only person he knew here was Mr. Stark. "I want you to take a deep breath for me, okay?" Dr. Banner asked. Peter realized that he was holding his breath. He nodded weakly.

"In."

Peter inhaled a shallow breath. It wasn't enough, but his lungs felt like an elastic band about to snap.

"Out."

Peter took a few more deep breaths along with Dr. Banner. His head started to clear somewhat. Puzzle pieces were falling in to place. Dr. Banner's words were really registering in Peter's head. He was at the Avenger's Compound in the Medical Bay. Peter squinted his eyes against the harsh lights and cast his gaze around. There were no ruins. No desolate city. No hideous, dusty landscape. Instead, rows of empty beds came in to view. It was a comforting sight despite the fact that the Med Bay was Peter's least favorite place in the compound. This was the place where Mr. Stark would grumble about Peter giving him gray hairs. It was a place where Peter was safe. More tears prickled at Peter's eyes. They were caused by the irritating lighting, of course. Peter wasn't crying. Not in front of one of the most respectable scientists in the world. He wasn't.

"FRIDAY, can you dim the lights?" Dr. Banner asked, noticing Peter's discomfort. Silently, FRIDAY obeyed and the lights softened. "That's better, right?"

Peter nodded wordlessly and ran a hand over his eyes. Something tugged at his arm and Peter noticed an IV needle trailing out of it. His throat constricted a fraction tighter than it already was. He had always hated needles.

"Earth?" Peter asked. Or he tried to, anyway. His voice came out all raspy and his throat was absolutely parched. It seemed like a redundant question. The Avengers compound was on Earth, but Peter needed to be certain that he was home.

"Yeah, you're on Earth," Dr. Banner assured him.

They'd done it. They'd gotten home. Somehow, they had beaten the odds and escaped starvation and suffocation. All of the tension in Peter's body disappeared and his muscles turned in to jelly. A small smile spread over Dr. Banner's mouth. His eyes were on Peter, analyzing him in almost a scrutinizing manner. They flickered over Peter's features, searching for something. If Peter were receiving that look from anyone else, he would have felt uncomfortable. But this was Bruce Banner; world renown biochemist, nuclear physicist, and the most knowledgeable person in the world on the subject of gamma radiation. Plus, he was the Hulk. If Peter didn't know any better, he would say that he was dreaming or hallucinating. It seemed more likely than being in the presence of a living legend.

"I'm Bruce Banner."

The introduction was so unnecessary. Peter almost laughed, but he managed to stop himself in time. He didn't want Dr. Banner to think he was rude. He wanted his first impression to be a good one. Well, he was lying in a hospital bed, so maybe that ship had already sailed.

"I know."

Peter would have said more if his throat wasn't so dry. He would have gone on to tell him about how his picture was in his school's chemistry lab. Then he would have rambled on ceaselessly about the man's achievements as if he wasn't already aware of them. Thankfully, his nonexistent voice saved him from embarrassing himself in front of one of the most admirable men in the world. Maybe being too thirsty to speak was kind of a blessing. Idly, Peter remembered how his first meeting with Mr. Stark had been kind of similar. He was a stammering, star-struck mess and there had been nothing to prevent his rambling tendency. That had been so long ago, but Peter hadn't really changed all that much. He had just become comfortable around Mr. Stark.

Mr. Stark… who wasn't here.

Panic sparked in Peter once more and took him down from his high. He cast his eyes around the Med Bay again, and he saw a figure lying on one of the beds. For a second, Peter felt relieved. Then he noticed that the figure had long strawberry blonde hair. Another layer of worry added to Peter's growing panic as he realized that the figure was Ms. Potts.

"Is Ms. Potts…"

"She's fine," Dr. Banner replied before Peter could finish. "She's just sleeping."

Sleeping? In the Medical Bay? Why would she…? Peter forced himself to focus. Ms. Potts was okay. That was the important thing. Now he needed to know where Mr. Stark was. If he was okay.

"Where's…"

"Tony is in a debriefing meeting. He'll be back soon."

Did Dr. Banner secretly have telepathic powers like Wanda Maximoff? How did he just _know_ what Peter was going to ask?

"You should try and sleep a little longer," Dr. Banner continued, derailing Peter's musings. Peter's body longed for rest, but he didn't think it would be possible. A nervous energy flooded his body, fighting back his heavy eyes and aching body. It wasn't enough to hear that Mr. Stark was fine. Peter needed to see it for himself. The last time he had seen him, they had both been so close to death. Peter had been certain that he would die. He had spent weeks waiting for the inevitable.

' _I love you, kid.'_

"No." Peter sat up bolt upright so quickly that Dr. Banner took a surprised step backward. "I gotta make sure that-" Dry, hacking coughs cut off Peter's words and his breathing. God, he was so thirsty and hungry and tired. But he would push through. He had to.

"No, don't try to get up," Dr. Banner urged, but Peter ignored him. He swung his legs over the side of the bed just as Dr. Banner placed his hands on Peter's shoulders. With ease, the man pushed him back down on to the mattress and moved his legs so that he was lying down properly. For the first time since the spider bite, Peter was pushed around against his will. The action sparked some long-buried resentment in Peter. "Easy, now."

The attempt to calm him down just pissed Peter off even more. He didn't want to be to be here, and he resented the fact that he was too weak to fight off one person. One person who, in that moment, was just a guy. If Peter were at his best, there's no way that Dr. Banner would've been able to push him around.

"No!" Peter shouted in his horse voice. "I gotta find Mr. Stark!"

Peter struggled against the man, but it was no use. With one hand, Dr. Banner reached over Peter's body and out of his line of sight. A second later, Peter's limbs started to feel heavier and his struggling became more lethargic. His eyes started to droop, and in the back of his mind Peter realized that Dr. Banner had given him a sedative. It made him sleepy, but did nothing to tamp down his anger. His last sight was of the doctor giving him an apologetic smile.

"Sorry, kid."

* * *

Peter was twenty thousand leagues under the sea. Black water was crushing down on him, making him immobile once more. It was comfortable and warm, but this time ignorance wasn't permitting Peter the pleasure of a restful sleep. There was something he had to do. He needed to wake up and find Mr. Stark. For a long time, Peter simply existed in his suspended state of semi-consciousness. All was silent and he waited impatiently.

And then…

"He seems to be improving much faster than Stark is."

A woman's voice traveled through the depths of water. Peter could hear it with perfect clarity despite the fact that it sounded far away. He had never heard this voice before, but she was discussing Mr. Stark so he perked up and payed attention.

"He has an enhanced healing factor. When I looked into his medical file, it showed that it has helped him a lot with recovering from minor injuries."

Wait, they were discussing him? He recognized Dr. Banner's voice, but who was the woman that he was talking to?

"Yeah, I bet. The hero life is dangerous. What the hell was Tony thinking-"

Well, there was a voice that Peter had heard in PE and detention. Oh, and in Germany. And maybe in some interviews. Not that Peter was a stalker or anything. It wasn't creepy. Normally, Captain America's voice rang with authority and charisma. But now it just sounded… weak. Almost apathetic. It was wrong, and Peter felt anxiety welling up inside of him. What the hell had happened to make him sound like that? Furthermore, why was he by Peter's bed side?

"He was thinking ahead to the future. It's what he does."

And Colonel Rhodes too? Why were all these people here? What the hell was going on?

"He might not even need this then." The woman said.

"Well, we didn't swing by Krylor to pick up a fancy shmancy Xorrian elixir for no reason. That other Terran, the one that threw a temper tantrum, still needs it."

At this point, Peter had given up trying to make sense of anything. There were too many strangers talking about things that Peter didn't understand. It made him a bit uncomfortable to have so many strangers standing near his unconscious body.

"Are you sure this is safe for humans?" Dr. Banner asked.

"The Xorrians are the common ancestor between us and all other humanoid aliens. Since their extinction, Krylorians adopted the practice of making Xorrian medicine. It's completely safe for us to use. Just make sure you give Stark the proper dosage."

Wait, the woman was gonna give Mr. Stark alien medicine? The thought of these strangers using Mr. Stark as a guinea pig made Peter's stress grow even more.

"Us? Wait, you mean you're human?" Colonel Rhodes asked.

"I used to be. Maybe I still am," the woman trailed off. Even immobilized and smothered under the weight of unconsciousness, Peter could hear the echoing ring of despair. "It's not important," She added heavily. There was silence once more. Peter supposed that they must have left. Maybe Dr. Banner was attending to Mr. Stark right at this moment.

"You're staying?" Dr. Banner asked.

"Might as well. What else is there left to do now?"

Peter had never heard Colonel Rhodes sound so empty before. So apathetic. The lack of emotion in such an emotionally charged situation left Peter feeling frightened. His earlier eagerness to wake up and find Mr. Stark, to find answers, had vanished. Now, he dreaded it. It would seem that something worse than Peter could imagine waited for him on the other side of the black water.

Peter wasn't ready for this. He doubted that anyone could be.

He allowed himself to fall in to the total embrace of unconsciousness once again.

* * *

The second time that Peter woke felt much better than the first time. It wasn't so difficult to keep his eyes open and the lights above of him didn't threaten to induce a migraine. He tentatively stretched his muscles, expecting them to scream in protest, and was pleasantly surprised to find that the soreness was absent. Instead he enjoyed the satisfying burn of a good stretch.

"Ah, you're awake."

Peter turned his head easily to see Dr. Banner approaching his bed side.

"Feeling a bit better?"

Peter nodded his head. He felt great. If it weren't for the soreness in his dry throat and his empty stomach, he would be completely on his A-game. he felt as if he could've been waking up to get ready for school. Just like any other day.

"Water please," Peter croaked. Dr. Banner reached over on to his bedside table to pick up a cup and pitcher that Peter hadn't realized was there. He quickly filled the glass and then put a bendy straw in it. "Thanks," Peter mumbled before taking a sip. Peter never knew, before that moment, that room temperature water could make him so happy. It was absolutely heavenly. In less than thirty seconds, Peter had drained the cup. "Can I have some more, please?"

"No, not right now. You'll make yourself sick."

Peter knew that he was right. Drinking too much water too quickly would be a bad idea. Still, he couldn't help the frown that pulled at his mouth. He felt like he could drink an entire ocean. Well, no he couldn't. The ocean was salt water. Dammit, Peter was an honor-roll student at a STEM school. The way that his brain was moving so sluggishly unnerved him more so than any physical injury he had ever sustained. He waited impatiently for the synapses in his brain to start firing at full capacity again. Peter's disgruntled state seemed to amuse Dr. Banner at least. He was trying, and failing, to suppress a smile.

"I'll go get you some food and let Tony know you're awake."

Dr. Banner turned on his heel and strode out of the Med Bay, leaving Peter alone with his thoughts. It was a terrifying prospect, and Peter nearly called out for him to stay. But he bit back his tongue and tried to take some deep breaths. An ominous feeling, born from uncertainty, twisted in his stomach. On the Benatar, death had chased after him until he ran out of stamina. He had resigned himself to dying young and he had accepted the fact that he would never find out what had happened to his aunt and his friends. The prospect of living, of finding out the truth was a terrifying thrill.

Something was shuffling on the floor. Something else, that sounded like little wheels, were rolling. Peter looked around for the source of the noise, but saw no one else in the empty Med Bay. That could only mean that the sound was coming from outside… which would mean that Peter's enhanced senses were back. Giddy relief swept over Peter like a tidal wave. A hysterical laugh ripped from his throat, irritating the still sore tissue. In space, he had lost nearly all of his abilities in a gradual process of deterioration. His body focused on preserving what was essential for survival. For the first time, it truly sunk in. He was okay. He was going to live.

Unfortunately for Peter, he couldn't contain his laughter before the rolling and shuffling noise reached the Med Bay door. The door slid open, and Mr. Stark stood in the door way leaning slightly on the rolling IV pole that was hooked up to his arm. Peter couldn't stop laughing. Not even when Mr. Stark's brow pinched with worry as he watched Peter laughing by himself, in an empty room, like a total lunatic.

"Hey, kid."

Mr. Stark walked to Peter's bed side, dragging the IV with him. His pace was slow but his steps were steady. That was a good sign, right? Considering the awful condition that he had been in before, Mr. Stark looked pretty good. The observation had a sobering effect, and Peter's hysterical laughing was replaced with uncontrollable coughing. The crease between Mr. Stark's brow deepened as he reached for the pitcher of water and glass on the table. He quickly filled it, and handed it to Peter, who downed it just as quickly as the first glass.

"You good?" Mr. Stark asked. Peter nodded and felt his cheeks heat up a little. Mr. Stark shook his head and chuckled. Even though he was laughing at Peter, the sound made him feel better. With his free hand, Mr. Stark took the cup from him and placed it on the table. He grabbed a chair and pulled it close to Peter's bed. The sound of the chair legs screeching made Peter wince, but he enjoyed it all the same. His hearing was back. Things would return to normal.

"We're alive," Peter said. Mr. Stark nodded his head tiredly.

"Yeah, things were looking pretty ugly up there." Mr. Stark nodded up towards the ceiling. "But the darndest thing happened after you passed out. Turns out, Nick Fury had connections to folks in space, not just on Earth. He sent word to a space cadet, formerly from Earth. The Avengers sent her our way to come rescue us."

Peter nodded his head thoughtfully. Oddly enough, that had made sense. If Peter hadn't spent countless hours in Mr. Stark's company, it probably would have sounded like rambling gibberish.

"But how did she find us?"

"The ship has a tracker on it. There's one last member of the Guardians of the Galaxy left. He tracked it down."

A brick sank in to Peter's stomach and his throat tightened painfully.

"One last member-?" Peter began.

"Hey, don't do that," Mr. Stark ordered in a voice so firm it momentarily stunned Peter. "I know that look. You did everything that you could. This wasn't you're fault. Not even close."

Peter knew that was true. He was just one person trying to look out for his neighbourhood and in the process got sucked in to a fight much bigger than he could've imagined. He had seen danger and dived in head first because Mr. Stark needed him. But he had been horribly uninformed of the danger. All he knew was what Mr. Stark had told him during a crash course on Thanos and the Infinity Stones. It hadn't prepared him for the fight that was coming. Really, nothing could have prepared him for those horrors. He was just one person. Completely insignificant in a war that had been brewing for years. Despite knowing that he couldn't have changed anything, it did nothing to assuage his guilt. He couldn't accept it.

"I know, but I still feel bad," Peter mumbled and cast his eyes down towards his blanketed lap. "He's all alone now."

"I think he might team up with the Blue Meanie."

What did that matter? Were they even friends? Peter liked Nebula, but he knew that she couldn't replace the team that the last guardian had lost. The team that Peter had watched die. People were irreplaceable. Peter knew that from experience. When his parents had died and he had gone to live with his aunt and uncle, Peter would lie awake at night missing them so much it ached. He had known, even at that young age, that no one would be able to make that hurt go away completely. He would carry that sorrow forever. Tears started to well in Peter's eyes and he blinked them away angrily. Now was not the time to be digging all that back up again.

"Is Nebula okay?" Peter asked, evading his previous train of thought. A long second of silence passed and Peter glanced up nervously at Mr. Stark.

"Yeah," Mr. Stark drawled hesitantly. Well, that was totally unconvincing. Worry crept up in Peter, tensing up his body. Nebula had been fine when Peter had last seen her, but that was… yesterday? Two days ago? Peter realized that he had no idea how long he had been unconscious. Before he could ask about Nebula, Dr. Banner returned carrying a tray with some food on it.

"Thanks, Dr. Banner," Peter mumbled. Hunger pangs twisted his stomach, but somehow the sight of food made his stomach turn. That was the nervousness, he guessed. The anticipation of a storm about to strike.

Dr. Banner smiled and nodded his head in acknowledgement. His eyes darted briefly between Peter and Mr. Stark before he turned to leave again. Well, that was odd. Peter noticed that Mr. Stark looked vaguely annoyed, but before he could wonder what had caused that, Mr. Stark forced a smile.

"Wow, I'm impressed with how you kept your inner fan boy in check," he teased. Peter cheeks flushed again and Mr. Stark laughed. Sometimes Peter wondered if the man teased him just to make him squirm. "Thought for sure you would melt in to a puddle." Mr. Stark winced as soon as the words left his mouth and Peter tried to not cringe at his poor choice of words. "Or is Bruce just not as cool as me?"

"Oh, I was awake before and I met him. And I managed to keep my cool," Peter snarked back, leaving out the part that he only managed to 'keep his cool' because he had been physically unable to speak.

"I find that hard to believe."

The banter came easily. If Peter focused on Mr. Stark, he could almost imagine that everything in the periphery was the lab and not the Med Bay.

Almost.

They were both ignoring the situation. Neither one of them wanted to look at the devastation, but it was time. Time to stop skirting around the problem and face it head on.

"I wanted to find you," Peter blurted out, not caring how creepy that must have sounded. "But I was being a little extra, so Dr. Banner gave me a sedative." Mr. Stark's eyes gained a hardened edge as they looked beyond Peter to something that he couldn't see.

"Yeah, they'll do that," he bit out with a small measure of venom. Though Peter knew that anger was directed at him, he winced nonetheless. His reaction seemed to snap Mr. Stark out of… whatever had just happened. He looked somewhat ashamed as he cast his eyes around, looking for a subject change.

"You should try to eat some of that." Mr. Stark pointed towards the tray filled with soup, apple sauce, and creamed corn. Honestly, even if Peter's stomach wasn't doing cartwheels, he would dread eating that stuff. It would seem that hospital food was hospital food no matter where you go. Eating was an impossible task anyway. He couldn't stomach anything while certain questions remained unanswered.

There was a 50/50 chance that May was alive. Those weren't great odds but they were… okay. Maybe. But it wasn't just May who existed in a state of 'maybe dead, maybe alive'. It was also Ned and MJ. And Abe, Betty, Mr. Harrington, the rest of the decathlon team. Liz, who had moved away to Oregon. The odds of everyone being alive got worse and worse as the list grew. For now, he focused on his one remaining family member.

"Kid?"

A deep shuddering breath, and…

"Do you know if my aunt is alive?"

The words left Peter's mouth and their effect was instantaneous. Mr. Stark looks at him with more anguish and concern than Peter had ever seen in his face before. It was all the answer Peter needed.

The air evaporated.

"I'm sorry, Peter." Mr. Stark said. Peter's ears were ringing and he almost didn't hear him. The words took a long time to travel through the void between them and in to Peter's consciousness. When they did, they rang hollow. They had no meaning. "Hey, talk to me, kid."

Talk to him? And say what? The last of his family was dead and Peter was officially an orphan. What more was there to say? It was happening all over again. He had inadvertently killed both his uncle and his aunt. How was he supposed to live with this?

"I don't know…" Peter said breathlessly. He wasn't even sure what he was trying to say. His mind had gone blank. All he could think of was how empty the apartment had felt when Ben had died. May and Peter had lived in that shell, haunted by the memory of someone that neither of them wanted to forget. Now, the apartment would be empty in every sense of the word. No Ben. No May. In essence, Peter was without a home. Then he realized that he was also without a physical home as well. "Where am I gonna go?" He mumbled to himself and was surprised when a warm hand squeezed his. Mr. Stark's larger hand held his, but Peter had no memory of how it got there. Mr. Stark's determined gaze was softened with shades of compassion.

"You're gonna live with me."

Mr. Stark sounded so confidant, so sure in his statement that it left Peter feeling a bit stunned. What could he say to that? Mr. Stark had told Peter that he loved him, but that didn't mean that he should feel obligated to take Peter in. An uncomfortable silence filled the air. Peter wasn't sure what he looked like. His face had long since become numb to him. But something in his expression caused Mr. Stark to look wary.

"I mean, if you want to." Mr. Stark added quickly. "You don't have to if you don't want to. It's your choice."

Something had broken. Something had changed in Mr. Stark in that moment. The back peddling left Peter feeling uneasy. Why would Mr. Stark take back his offer so quickly? Did he get carried away in the moment? Mr. Stark was a fix-it guy kind of a guy who was well known for his impulsive decisions. Was this just a combination of Mr. Stark's problem-solving tendency and a misplaced sense of guilt derived from their mentor/mentee relationship?

"No, Mr. Stark-" Peter rushed out, feeling all at once quite flustered. "You don't have to do that."

The caution in Mr. Stark's gaze intensified and it struck an odd contrast with his unwavering determination.

"I know I don't have to. I want to."

That was a lie. No one wanted this. Mr. Stark wouldn't want to take in a teenager like a stray cat because he was the last living adult in Peter's life who cared about him. If Peter did live with Mr. Stark, he knew that the man would eventually come to resent his presence. He had told Peter that he loved him, but that was only because they spent at most twenty-four hours per week in each other's company. It was easy to love someone that you didn't have to tolerate all the time. Mr. Stark didn't _really_ know him. Not at all. It was kind of surreal that Mr. Stark could have ever said that he loved Peter, considering how little he actually knew about him.

But maybe… that wasn't real.

Peter felt ice flow through his veins as he considered the possibility. He had heard Mr. Stark's voice tell him that he loved him, but Peter had been nearly unconscious at the time. He was weaving between dream and reality. It was possible, Peter supposed, that he had fabricated that memory because he was dying. He had needed to feel safe, and perhaps in those last moments, loved. Maybe his desperation had intensified what he had thought Mr. Stark felt for him. From this vantage point, as a liability threatening to burden Mr. Stark's life, it certainly didn't seem as though the man could love him. That hurt, and Peter felt an embarrassed flush heat up his cheeks, but it was honest at least. All that Peter really had left in the world was himself. So he needed to be self-sufficient.

"I'm not really a kid anymore anyway. I can take care of myself."

"Peter-"

"I'm feeling a lot better. Soon I'll be outta your hair and I'll-"

He'll what? Drop out of school? Was there even a school to drop out of anymore? He would have to find a place of his own. It was necessary, but how would he do that? There were too many 'whys' and 'hows', and it was all piling up, and Peter was only sixteen…

His eyes were hot again, and Peter couldn't stop the tears this time. A sharp pain was stabbing at his lungs and Peter realized that he could only draw short gasps.

"I'll-"

Sobs choked Peter's voice and the rest of the words sat painfully in his throat. From his peripheral vision, he saw Mr. Stark pull hard at his arm. Focusing his gaze on him, Peter saw the IV needle fall to the floor.

"Don't." Peter protested weakly. "You need that."

"It's okay." Mr. Stark murmured, ignoring Peter's objection. He stood up shakily and sat beside Peter on the bed. His arm fell around Peter's shoulders, making him feel impossibly small. "You're coming home with me."

"No, no, no, I'll be fine-"

"It's okay."

"No, no, no…" Peter whispered to himself over and over again.

"You'll be okay."

That was also a lie. Peter doubted that he would ever be okay again. He was alone now, even in the presence of another person. He was his own family. The last of the Parkers.

Peter was sobbing and hiccuping. He couldn't seem to get himself under control. A worrying thought passed through his mind.

"Don't give me another sedative."

The arm around Peter's shoulders tightened, and Peter buried his face in to Mr. Stark's sweater.

"Not to worry, kid. I'm not mean like Brucie. Cry all you want."

Peter's wet laughs were muffled by the material of the sweater. Crying seemed like an odd thing to be granted permission to do, but Peter realized as the flood gates broke that he had been waiting for it. He cried and Mr. Stark held him. If he was bothered by the tears and snot slicking his sweater, he didn't say anything.

* * *

It was the first sunny day since Peter had regained consciousness. The light lit up the lush lawn of the Avenger's compound and glinted off of the metal space ship, which was parked casually in the middle of the lawn. A raccoon was perched on top of it, holding a welding torch in one hand and a welder's mask in the other. A very tiny welder's mask. Honestly, Peter had no idea where Rocket had managed to get his hands on raccoon sized tools. Mr. Stark was in no condition to be building anything in his lab. Peter thought that even if he was physically well enough to do so, he wouldn't want to. There was a frosty nip in the air that had nothing to do with the compound's centralized air conditioning. Mr. Stark just seemed so… bitter. He carried a haggard sort of air that wasn't present before. Peter would have thought that their time spent stranded in space would have been Mr. Stark's lowest point. He was wrong.

A tingling sensation ran over Peter's skin and he realized that someone was watching him. He turned his eyes away from the floor to ceiling windows that overlooked the lawn and found a pair of solid black eyes lingering on him.

"You're not planning on skipping town without saying goodbye, are you?"

The question came out like a joke, but it really wasn't. Nebula was lacking somewhat in the social etiquette department. He wouldn't put it past her to sneak off without saying a word. Which was just rude cause, honestly, Peter may never see her again. She approached him with slow steps. They echoed loudly in the empty hallway. Finally, she reached his side and tilted her head down to look at him sitting on the floor.

"You seem to be nearly recovered."

"Yeah, my weird spidey DNA helps to get me out of sticky situations."

Peter patted his hand on the linoleum floor, right beside himself. Apparently, that casual, wordless invitation was universally known, because Nebula lowered herself stiffly to sit next to him. Her joints clicked and whirled much like how human joints made gross popping noises.

"Death is more severe than a 'sticky situation'." Nebula replied flatly and Peter tried not to wince at her directness. Her eyes flickered over his form before snapping forward to look out the window. Her hands twitched restlessly but in a very subdued manner. Finally, she rested them on her knees, her palms cupping her kneecaps. Nervousness wasn't one of the few emotions that Peter had ever seen on her guarded face. Its appearance made Peter uneasy and his stomach knotted in anticipation. "I'm glad that you didn't die."

Oh. Was that all? Peter almost laughed, but managed to suppress it in to a stupid looking smile that Nebula couldn't see anyway. Peter really shouldn't laugh. He supposed that for the severely emotionally constipated, admitting to feeling relieved that a friend was still alive would be a difficult task.

"Me too." Peter agreed lamely. Peter could only see Nebula's profile, but he noticed that her eyes narrowed in annoyance. He glanced forward and realized that she could see his expression reflected in the window. His poorly concealed mirth was evident on his face. Whoops. "Thanks for saving me," he added. It was a genuine 'thank-you', but also an attempt to butter her up and move the conversation along.

"I did nothing. It was Carol Danvers that saved us."

Carol Danvers. The space cadet formerly from Earth, as Mr. Stark had called her. Yeah, she really had saved their asses, and Peter had thanked her profusely when he had met her for the first time. But she wasn't there for those twenty-two soul-sucking, bleak, utterly _hopeless_ days.

"Yeah, but you kept our spirits up when we were all trapped on the ship."

Nebula turn her head to look at him, and Peter saw the metal plating of her face mold in to the purest expression of bewilderment that he had ever seen. It was as if she truly couldn't comprehend how or when she had accomplished such a thing.

"I lifted your spirit?" Her words came out clumsily, and a smirk pulled at Peter's mouth. Maybe that was only an idiom on Earth. Nebula seemed to get the gist of what it meant. Her face settled back in to a confused frown. "That did nothing to aid our survival."

Peter sighed and leaned his head back against the wall. It was the origami flower all over again. Peter wondered if there would ever be a time when he and Nebula would see eye to eye on this matter.

"Maybe not, but it did make the time we spent trapped together less miserable. If I had to go out like that, I would want to spend my last hours goofing off with friends. Playing paper football and cracking jokes. Stuff like that."

The confused frown remained, but Nebula's eyes grew vacant as she became lost in thought. After a few moments she snapped her gaze forward again to take in the view from the window. Or maybe just to avoid eye contact.

"And also Mr. Stark said that you carried me to the Med Bay. So there's that too," Peter added as an afterthought. Nebula nodded her head, seeming to finally accept Peter's gratitude. "You're leaving?"

"Yes." Nebula replied, without turning to look at him.

"When?"

"As soon as the fox is done fixing the ship."

Fox? Peter turned his head forward to look at Rocket welding some of the ship's paneling together. For whatever reason he wasn't wearing the tiny welder's mask. The controlled line of fire seemed to get away from him, and suddenly orange sparks were flying in every direction. He yelped and leaped backwards. At least, Peter thought he yelped. There was no way to hear him on the third floor and behind bullet proof glass.

"Stupid fox," Nebula muttered while huffing a breathy kind of laugh. Oh, she thought Rocket was a fox. Peter had heard Thor refer to Rocket as a rabbit. What was up with aliens not knowing what raccoon was?

"Should we help him?" Peter asked. He was starting to become concerned with how Rocket's devil-may-care attitude would mix with a welding torch. His fur was flammable after all.

"No. His stupidity is entertaining, and these are good front row seats."

Well, that was unsettling. Peter hoped that the meaning behind Nebula's dark humour translated in to 'I have confidence that Rocket is smart enough to not accidentally set his fur on fire.' God, he really hoped so.

"What are you gonna do out there in space?" Peter asked to distract himself from the accident waiting to happen.

"I will try to establish some order to a panicked and grieving universe."

Yeah, Peter figured her goal would be something along those lines. It was all that people like them had left to do in this post snap universe.

"So, damage control?" he asked.

"Yes."

"I'm gonna do that too."

Nebula snapped her head to the side to look at him sharply.

"No. Stark put all of his effort in to getting you home. I'm not taking you off planet."

"Oh, no, I meant I'm gonna do damage control here on Earth, in my neighbourhood," Peter clarified and the razor-sharp edge fell from Nebula's gaze. "I don't know if you've heard, but I'm the friendly neighbourhood Spider-Man."

A teeny tiny smirk tucked itself into the corner of Nebula's mouth.

"I thought you were the village idiot of Queens."

Dammit. This wasn't going away anytime soon. Peter cursed Mr. Stark for starting all of this. The man truly was a shit disturber by nature.

"You know what-" Peter spluttered indignantly but then stopped. Nebula was teasing him, but it was all in good fun. And hadn't Peter set out to try to get her to be more human and less robotic? He decided that salvaging his pride was a lost cause and to just roll with the joke. "Spider-Man's a part time job, after school and on weekends. Being the district idiot of a municipality is a full time job."

"I hadn't realized that the position was so prestigious."

"Sure is. I'll have you know, I'm a pivotal member of the community."

"I bet." Nebula said flatly. It might've been Peter's imagination, but he thought he heard some fondness there. Or maybe he only wished it was. 

A lull fell in the conversation, and the two sat in companionable silence. From the distance, Rocket finished welding the metal paneling together. He tossed his equipment off the side of the ship and onto the grass before sliding down the side of the ship.

"You're not going alone, are you?" Peter asked nervously. He was pretty sure that she and Rocket would form their own little two-man team, but then again Nebula might just decide to go alone. Maybe she would prefer it that way. But the thought of her confronting the dangers of the universe without anyone watching her back made Peter's stomach twist.

"No, the fox is going to tag along." Nebula said begrudgingly. "If he doesn't get in my way, I might allow him to stay."

Peter's brow knit together as he cast her a confused glance.

"I thought it was his ship. Shouldn't it be the other way around?"

"It's his ship for now." She corrected.

Panic flickered in Peter's chest. He liked Nebula, he really did. But he couldn't just sit by and do nothing while she contemplated mutiny and theft. An awkward silence stretched on while Peter tried to decide on what to do.

"That was a joke." Nebula said stiffly and Peter breathed a sigh of relief.

"Oh. Good." Peter laughed uneasily. Okay, so jokes weren't Nebula's forte. She would get there eventually. "Fixing the universe, it's a really big job," he mused, and then realized belatedly how stupid that sounded. It was the understatement of the century. "Huge. Gargantuan, even." He amended.

"I owe it to the universe to clean up some of the fall out of this catastrophe."

"What? No, it's not your fault." Peter rushed out, mimicking the words that had been too often said to him. Peter still had a hard time accepting them. Maybe it was the same for Nebula.

"Not entirely. But partially, it is." Nebula said softly and fixated her gaze on to her hands. "For years I aided my father in his quest to collect the stones and use them to eliminate half of all living things."

"You didn't have a choice-"

"Everyone has a choice." Nebula replied sharply. Its intensity stunned Peter in to silence. "I could have refused to participate in his plan. I would've been executed, but I would've died an honourable death. Instead, I chose to help my father because I wanted his approval and I wanted to live."

Peter didn't know what to say to that. He wanted to tell her that being coerced and abused in to helping a monster didn't make her one as well. Valuing her life and doing what needed to be done to preserve it didn't make her terrible person. But he had a feeling that his words wouldn't do any good. This seemed like something that she needed to realize for herself, and maybe this journey would give her peace of mind. Still, her choice of words rubbed him the wrong way. Calling Thanos a 'father' was disgusting in every sense of the word.

"Why do you call him that? He's not your father. He's a monster."

Nebula leveled him with a hard stare. It wasn't angry or mean exactly. But there was something there. Something that Peter couldn't discern.

"We're not all so lucky," she replied, her voice dull and emotionless.

"What?"

"Nothing." Nebula turn her gaze forward again, avoiding Peter's questioning gaze and staring at the abandoned ship. Peter was left feeling uneasy, as if he had missed something obvious. "I was a member of the Black Order. Thanos referred to us as his children. Even though I was his most disappointing child and he was cruel to me, it was nice to belong to someone."

Oh. So this hurt ran deeper than Peter had known. Not for the first time, he was completely repulsed by how Thanos had treated Nebula. How he treated all of the children he had abducted. This was something that Peter was in no way qualified to help with. He would probably just make things worse while trying to make Nebula feel better. Maybe it would be enough for him to just be there with her. Present, accepting and not judgmental. To let her know that she always had a place with them on Earth.

"You could stay, you know. You could belong with us." Peter offered. He amended the preposition because the thought of anyone belonging _to_ someone else left a bad taste in his mouth. Nebula became frozen like a metal statue. She remained perfectly still as she turned over Peter's offer in her mind.

"No, I can't stay. I need this atonement for my actions," Nebula decided and Peter nodded his head in acceptance. He had expected her to refuse, but he wanted her to know that the offer was on the table. "Besides, I don't think Terra is ready for a cybernetically enhanced Luphomoid to casually walk the streets. I understand that the Avengers are much more accepting of aliens than the majority of Terrans."

Peter cracked a smile at that.

"Yeah, maybe. New York has seen some shit, but I don't think we're quite to the point where grocery shopping wouldn't be awkward for you."

Nebula smiled at the thought as well, and the two of them enjoyed the light atmosphere for a moment. It didn't last, and soon Nebula was pushing herself up off of the floor. Peter recognized the approaching farewell.

"Take care out there, Nebbie." He said, and Nebula became stiff just as she managed to straighten herself up. She looked at him with slightly narrowed eyes.

"Nebbie?"

"Yeah. Like Debbie, but with an N." Peter explained with a grin. It was tit for tat teasing. If Peter had to live with being the village idiot, Nebula would have to live with a stupid nickname. It was only fair. Nebula's face slid in to a deep scowl. Clearly, she didn't agree. "Too much? We're not there yet?"

"You have just made this parting much easier."

Peter laughed easily at Nebula's icy expression. He supposed he was gambling with his life. He was banking on the fact that he knew that Nebula liked him to much to kill him outright.

"Okay, fine. No nicknames. Got it."

Nebula turned on her heel and started to walk down the hallway towards the elevator.

"I expect you to still be alive when I return," she called over her shoulder and Peter felt a warmth settle in his chest. In this life where he had already lost all of his friends to genocide, Peter was glad to have gained a new friend. Someone who would return when the others could not.

"Yes, Ma'am." He called back pressing his fingers up to his eyebrow and saluting her retreating form. Her back was turned and she couldn't see it anyway. Unless she had eyes in the back of her head. Well, she was a cyborg. So maybe she did.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hat tip to anyone who got the obscure 'Boy Meets World' reference.


	5. Broken Beyond Repair

It was day five of living in the Avenger's Compound.

Five days since Peter had regained consciousness.

Two days since Nebula had gone off on her universe-wide damage control mission. Or her soul-searching quest, depending on how you looked at it. Peter was more inclined to believe it was the latter.

Dr. Banner had said that Mr. Stark would be well enough to leave in two more days. Peter knew that when that happened, Mr. Stark and Ms. Potts would be taking him with them to the city. They would find a place to settle down temporarily and find their bearings. After that… he and Mr. Stark would have to go to Queens.

Peter tried to push the thought from his mind, but it loomed over the horizon. Returning to his home. Packing up his life in a suitcase for the second time in his life. Technically, the first time a social worker had helped him pack up his life in a Scooby-Doo backpack, not a suitcase. Going home… it was something that Peter was dreading. His nerves wound up tighter and tighter whenever his thoughts flittered back to his little apartment, and so, Peter found himself constantly seeking out distractions. Most days, Peter clung to Mr. Stark in a way that would have been both annoying and embarrassing in the time before Thanos snapped his fingers. In a less devastated world, Mr. Stark would have been weirded out by how clingy Peter had become. In a rare display of tact, he allowed Peter to hang around him. Maybe he realized how desperately Peter needed something stable in his life. For whatever reason, he didn't push Peter away. But today, Dr. Banner had Mr. Stark focusing on physio exercise to help rebuild his atrophied muscles. So Peter had to seek out a different distraction.

In a building full of Avengers, finding a distraction shouldn't be a difficult task. But it was. The compound was now occupied with more Avengers than Peter had ever seen in it. Despite their presence, the compound felt empty. Ironically, the building had felt livelier and welcoming during the time when it had just been Mr. Stark, Vision, and Colonel Rhodes occupying it. Of course, there had been a bond of trust between the remaining three legitimate Avengers. Now that the surviving rogue Avengers had returned, everyone was physically present but mentally absent. In the five days that Peter had been at the compound, he had seen feeble attempts made by the rouges to be strong in the face of other's grief. No one was successful in keeping up the charade for long. Everyone existed in a bizarre state of crowded solitude. Maybe that's what facilitated them to leave. One by one they were disappearing from the compound like ghosts. Turning their backs on a family that had never fully healed. One that would likely never be whole again.

Nebula, who was an Avenger in Peter's eyes at least, had left for space along with Rocket. Thor had left before Peter could meet him. Carol Danvers had stuck around long enough for Peter to meet her and stumble over a never-ending stream of 'thank-yous'. She had just laughed off his awkwardness and shrugged like flying across the universe to save them was no big deal. Like she had been sent to the store to pick up some milk. Peter had asked her about her powers and how she had acquired them. He listened, absolutely spell-bound, as she told him about how she had absorbed the raw power of an exploding energy core. An energy core which had contained the _Tesseract_. Somehow, she had survived that, though the exposure to the Tesseract and an alien blood transfusion had left her physically changed. Honestly, Peter could relate to that a little too well.

To Peter's surprise, Carol had then asked about his powers and how he had acquired them. She listened with just as much interest as he recounted his adventures through Oscorp, the spider bite, and a brief recap of the ensuing shenanigans of the past two years.

Of course, a demonstration of powers was in order.

Peter had climbed a wall and hung from the ceiling. He had wanted to do something more impressive, but Mr. Stark's sharp ' _don't you dare'_ look pierced through his soul and kept his buffoonery to a minimum. Carol had insisted that they go outside for her demonstration. She lit up like a Christmas tree and flew around the spacious grounds. The following touch down on the grass, with more force than necessary had resulted in a sizable crater in the lawn. All in all, it had been a display of absolutely shameless showboating.

Peter had liked her instantly.

"You know, it's a universally known _fact_ ," Carol's lip had curled in disgust as she put air quotes around the word, "that humans are a race of pathetic weaklings. We're the disappointing subspecies of the Xorrians, good for nothing more than supplying warm bodies for the black-market slave trade." Peter's mouth hung open in shock. Before he could collect his thoughts and ask what the hell life was like for humans in space, Carol had continued. "But I think between you, me, Banner, and Rogers we prove them wrong. The four of us stumbled into something dangerous and unexpected. Our genetic make-up was altered. We should've died but we didn't. We're made of stronger stuff." She'd clapped Peter on the shoulder with a grip that would've bruised him if not for his enhancement. "There's probably more like us out there. You know, I left Earth for a couple decades and it isn't the same as how I left it." Her eyes had grown thoughtful and her grip had relaxed. "Maybe I should come home more often. Check up on things."

"We'll be here when you do. You got friends," Peter told her cheerfully. Carol had laughed and given him an odd look. It was too friendly and warm to be patronizing, but there was definitely a smidge of condescension lurking there.

"You're adorable."

Peter didn't know how he felt about one of the most badass people he knew thinking that he was _adorable_. It was irritating, but he decided to just accept that sitting at the Avengers' kiddie table was his lot in life. At least until he was an adult.

Carol had left soon after, leaving nothing but memories and Mr. Stark's grumblings about lawn maintenance in her absence. That left only Colonel Rhodes, Captain Rodgers, Natasha Romanoff, and Dr. Banner left in the building. Peter had a suspicion that Dr. Banner would leave once Mr. Stark was well. He really didn't seem too keen on sticking around.

Peter's options for a distraction were limited, and dwindling by the day. Maybe he would wake up tomorrow and find that Captain Rogers had gone back to Brooklyn. In Peter's head, a list of burning question were begging to be asked, but these circumstances were all wrong. He had always wanted to meet the Avengers, but not like this. The weight of defeat hung in the air, making Peter's interactions with the Avengers awkward and strange, but it was more than that. At times, it felt as though Peter was at school and the cool kids were gossiping about him. He wasn't sure if it was because he was the new guy or if they, like Mr. Stark and Carol, viewed him like a child. He supposed that either was possible. Still, he wouldn't let it deter him from meeting the one Avenger in the building who had been evading him like a shadow in the night.

Natasha Romanoff had spent years, probably decades, training to be stealthy and alert. It came in handy both on the job and off of it. She seemed to have a sixth sense that tipped her off whenever Peter entered a room. This resulted in Peter only ever seeing a flash of her short blonde hair as she hastily exited through a doorway. It was strange and kind of insulting to be so blatantly avoided for no apparent reason.

Today was different, though. As Peter approached the conference room, he saw through the glass walls that Ms. Romanoff was standing in the middle of the room, alone, and analyzing various screens and holograms. She looked busy. A small part of Peter's brain told him to leave her alone. It told him that she was clearly searching for answers, and she didn't want to be bothered. A much larger part of his brain argued that he was also looking for answers, and he wouldn't get them unless he took initiative. With a decisive nod to accompany his inner pep talk, Peter pushed open the glass door.

The room was silent and the click of the door closing echoed loudly off of the walls. Ms. Romanoff turned her body to throw a glance over her shoulder. She stood in a power stance with her arms crossed over her chest. She was dressed in her black tactile suit, the one she would wear to battle. It lent her an intimidating air that seemed oddly misplaced in this situation. The battle had already been fought and lost. Why was she geared up like she was about to board the Quinjet? Peter felt his mouth go dry as the seconds dragged on and the daunting prospect of talking to _the_ Black Widow sunk in.

"Hi, I'm Peter." He said in a scratchy voice. His cheeks flushed and he coughed to clear his throat. "Peter Parker."

"Natasha Romanoff." She mumbled before turning back to face the holograms and screens again. A series of maps of pictures filled up the area. The pictures were violent to say the least. One of them was particularly gory. It was grainy, but Peter could see countless bodies slumped over chairs, tables, and lying on the floor. Like marionettes with cut strings. Blood was everywhere, and the sight of the carved-up bodies made Peter's stomach roll. He averted his gaze from the carnage and took a couple of deep steadying breaths.

So many had died already. Fifty percent. Why would anyone add to that horrifying figure?

"What are you doing?" Peter asked as he plucked up his courage to look at the screens again.

"I'm searching for someone."

Peter couldn't see Ms. Romanoff's face, since he was standing behind her. He wondered if her expression was just as devoid of emotion as her voice was. Peter had never spoken to her face to face, but he had heard her speaking to her team mates in Germany. He had seen her in interviews. Not that that was the equivalent of knowing a person, but Peter liked to think that Ms. Romanoff probably wasn't this cold all the time. Something about this situation must really be affecting her. Peter ignored his queasiness and focused on the information on display before him.

A name stood out in the sea of indecipherable data.

"You're searching for this 'Ronin' guy?" Peter asked and he noticed that Ms. Romanoff's shoulders tightened slightly.

"Yes."

Peter's eyes flittered over the screens and he looked at the series of maps more closely. One was of eastern Europe; another was of Hungary. A highlighted city name caught Peter's eye.

"Budapest," he muttered to himself.

Okay. So, Ms. Romanoff was looking for a ruthless killer in eastern Europe? Why? Sure, the Avengers existed to help people, but this location was so remote and the crime seemed isolated. It didn't seem like something big enough to appear on the Avengers' radar. Mr. Stark had once told him that certain criminals were below the Avengers' pay grade. This seemed like one of them. Something didn't add up. Then Peter saw a familiar name and picture, and Ms. Romanoff's chilling calm suddenly made sense.

"Clint Barton is alive?!" Peter asked, louder than he had intended. He couldn't help it. He was too excited and relieved. When he hadn't seen Clint Barton at the compound, he had assumed that he had vanished along with countless others. Peter didn't know that much about Ms. Romanoff as a person, but he did know that Mr. Barton was her partner. Her friend. And now it seemed as though he had gone off alone to stop a murderer on the other side of the world. "Was he sent to take care of Ronin?" he asked quickly, his words nearly tripping over themselves. "Does he need help?"

A second passed. Ms. Romanoff stood, solid and strong, without even turning her head to look at Peter. A weight settled in Peter's stomach as he began to fear the worst. Surely, Mr. Barton hadn't been killed. No, of course not. That was ridiculous. He couldn't have survive so many catastrophes just to be killed so far away from home. Peter took a step closer to Ms. Romanoff's side without realizing he had done so. She turned her face away from him, so that all Peter could see was her dyed hair.

"Yeah, he needs help," she muttered in a low and controlled voice. "I think Tony is supposed to be taking a break from physio therapy soon."

Peter recognized the dismissal. Despite his burning curiosity to find out more about what had happened to Mr. Barton, he was kind of glad that Ms. Romanoff was turning him away. Peter wasn't sure how much more grief he could take. His own grief surrounded him in thick layers. The grief of others were heavy additions to add on top. If he got too close, he would be crushed.

"Oh, okay," Peter muttered and turned to the door. A large figure was entering just as Peter reached the door. Captain Rogers stood in the door way, taking up nearly all the space in it. Unlike Ms. Romanoff, who was wearing her battle suit, Captain Rogers was dressed in a casual button-down shirt and jeans. Devoid of his red, white, and blue suit and shield, he was Captain Rogers not Captain America. That didn't make Peter any less flustered as he came face to face with one of Earth's Mightiest Heroes.

"Hi, Captain Rogers. Sir." He stammered out. The man gave him a tired smile and nodded in greeting.

"Hello, Peter."

Captain Rogers strode past him and approached Ms. Romanoff's side. For a moment, Peter stared after him, too star-struck to move. Then he remembered where he was and the situation that he was in. His cheeks flushed with embarrassment as he walked through the door.

"How old is this intel?" Captain Rogers asked in a hushed tone.

"A week. He could be anywhere by-"

The door snapped shut, cutting off the rest of Ms. Romanoff's reply. The sound proof room muted the conversation, leaving Peter to wonder if the 'he' that Ms. Romanoff was referring to was Ronin or Mr. Barton. He walked down the hall and spared the conference room one last glance as he was about to turn the corner. Ms. Romanoff had one of her hands pressed over her eyes. Her posture was curled in on itself and Captain Rogers had an arm wrapped around her shoulders. For the first time, Peter realized that Natasha Romanoff was a small woman. Her petite frame was dwarfed by Captain Rogers as she leaned in to him for support. Without her iron-clad will and self-assured confidence, the illusion of strength was shattered. Peter's throat tightened as caught a glimpse in to a private moment of grief that he hadn't intended to witness. He quickened his pace, eagerly trying to leave the moment behind him, and he set off in the direction of the Med Bay.

Peter desperately wanted to leave the compound, and at the same time he didn't. He wanted to follow in the footsteps of Nebula, Rocket, Carol, and Thor. He wanted to run away from this gilded cage, but he also wasn't ready to leave. The compound, with all of its security, kept the real world at bay. The real world was much more dangerous now that it was in pieces. There was a strong desire to run and never look back, but where would he run to? He had no home anymore. No family. Mr. Stark would get tired of having Peter around eventually. And then what?

Oh, god. Peter was spiraling again. He stopped in the hallway outside of the Med Bay and pressed his back against the wall. In the past five days, he had four panic attacks. Four incidents of paralyzing fear accompanied by a racing heart and choked breathing. He was getting better at recognizing the signs before the attack came, so he took this moment to calm himself down.

Mr. Stark was waiting just behind this wall. Peter couldn't freak out, cause that would make Mr. Stark freak out, and Peter had put his mentor through enough emotional crap.

' _If she knew, she would freak out. And when she freaks out, I freak out.'_

A wet laugh escaped Peter's throat as he ran his hands through his hair. He balled them in to loose fists around chunks of his hair and dropped his head back against the wall. Peter had put May through a fair share of emotional crap too. Maybe that was an involuntary obligation that came with being part of a family.

But then again, Mr. Stark wasn't his family. So where did that leave him?

The thought was sobering, and Peter felt his heart rate returning to normal. He took a few more deep breaths and wiped the sweat from his face with the sleeve of his shirt. After a few more seconds, Peter felt that he probably looked outwardly calm. Passably relaxed, even though his insides still felt coiled like a spring under pressure.

The doors slid open, and Peter walked in to find Mr. Stark sitting at a table at the far end of the room. He looked sweaty and worn out, but overall not as tired as he had been yesterday. He looked up from his tray of food as Peter approached. His smile faltered for a second before spreading across his face again.

"Hey, kid." Mr. Stark beckoned towards the table with one hand and pushed out a chair with his foot. "Help me finish this gross, low-fat, no-flavour, no-happiness sandwich."

Honestly, Peter had no idea how Mr. Stark could make him laugh when he was feeling so shitty. These days, his own laughter always took him by surprise. Mr. Stark cracked a small victorious smile as Peter sank down in to the chair opposite of him.

"You're lucky I'll eat anything. Anyone else would've been put off by that sales pitch." Peter said as he picked up the untouched half of the sandwich and took a bite. He winced as he tried to choke back the bite of insanely dry bread. "Why're dey givin you low-fat food when yur tryin' ta gain weight?" His words came out garbled through a mouth full of disappointing sandwich. Mr. Stark shrugged and eyed his own nibbled half disdainfully.

"That's what I said. But then Bruce said something like 'blah blah cholesterol, yadda yadda trans fats'." Peter raised an eyebrow at that and Mr. Stark sighed before taking a reluctant bite. "I dunno, I stopped listening."

Well, Peter thought that was kinda overkill. Mr. Stark was looking stronger with each passing day. Some mayonnaise wouldn't kill him. But, what did he know? Peter wasn't a doctor. Mr. Stark still wasn't well enough for Dr. Banner to discharge him, so Peter really should have more faith in his judgement. Dr. Banner had held a steadfast resolve to keep Mr. Stark until he was well again, and Peter was shocked to see the man actually abiding a doctor's wishes. Peter knew that Mr. Stark was still furious with the rogue Avengers that occupied the compound. Over the years that Peter had spent with Mr. Stark, he had come to learn how absolutely insufferable he was when he was forced in to doing things he didn't want to do. Despite the fact that Mr. Stark clearly wanted to be anywhere else, he kept the bitchiness and sarcasm to a manageable amount. All it had taken was a soft _'please'_ from Ms. Potts and a knowing look from Colonel Rhodes, and Mr. Stark had somehow become complacent.

It wasn't the most shocking thing that Peter had ever seen, but it definitely cracked the top ten.

For a few minutes, the two of them ate in companionable silence, but then Mr. Stark's exasperated voice broke it.

"Okay, what's wrong?"

Peter froze, sandwich held halfway between mouth and plate, and look at Mr. Stark with genuine confusion.

"Hmmm? Nothing."

"Yeah, that wasn't convincing at all. Wanna try again?"

Peter sighed and dropped his sandwich on to the plate. He had thought that he had done a good job of keeping up the appearance of being fine. Now he was worrying Mr. Stark again. He should've just avoided the Med Bay and wandered around the compound until he was actually fine. He was no good at faking it.

"I just feel weird here." Peter mumbled. He realized belatedly that that was the sort of vague attention-seeking thing that an angsty teenager would say. He should probably narrow it down a bit. "They're avoiding me." It wasn't necessary to clarify who he meant by 'they'. Mr. Stark understood that he meant the other Avengers. He raised an eyebrow, but didn't speak. His expression wasn't exactly questioning, but it compelled Peter to justify his claim. "No, really, they are. I know that sounds like I'm totally full of myself, but I swear they are doing everything they can to not talk to me."

It was more than a little disheartening, to be honest. Ever since the Avengers' formation in 2012, Peter had wanted to meet them. It was a ridiculous fantasy carved out of wisps of smoke. Something that he could look at, imagine, but never grasp. It had suddenly become concrete and tangible when a series of unlikely events had put him on the path of gaining super powers, meeting Tony Stark, and then being officially initiated in to the Avengers. Peter had always wanted to meet the original six. The ones who had saved his neighbourhood from tyrannical aliens and nuclear holocaust. They had saved his everything. His home, his family, his friends, his life. In the subsequent years, once Peter had become powerful himself, he had kept up the neighbourhood maintenance. If nothing else, Peter had wanted to meet them so that he could express his gratitude. His fantasy had been cheerful, light, and so painfully naïve. He had never imagined that he would meet them like this.

Broken.

Defeated.

Hopeless.

In his imaginary meeting of the Avengers, they hadn't dropped their gaze to avoid Peter's eyes. They hadn't changed direction in the hallway in order to avoid being near him. Meeting the Avengers had been everything that Peter had ever dreamed of, but it was all wrong.

"Why do you wanna talk to those guys anyway?" Mr. Stark asked, his light sarcasm barely concealing the reservoir of bitterness. "Is my sparkling conversation not enough?"

Peter knew this was a sore spot for Mr. Stark. It was obvious how his old team mates had hurt him, and he resented having to remain under the same roof as them. Normally, Peter wouldn't bring up such an uncomfortable topic, but he needed to know what was happening. He needed to know why he was being left in the dark again.

"It's fine that they don't want to talk to me. They don't know me and I don't know them. But I feel like they're hiding something from me. Something big." He hated the secrecy, and he hated the fear that clawed at his insides at the prospect of learning the truth. Mr. Stark's gaze softened and he considered Peter for a moment. Peter could sense that he was standing at the crossroads of a hard decision. "Mr. Stark?"

The man tossed his half of the sandwich down to join Peter's abandoned half on the plate. He scrubbed a hand over his newly kempt beard and his eyes regarded Peter with a weary gaze.

"They don't want to tell you about the mission that happened while we were unconscious."

Peter didn't know what exactly he had expected Mr. Stark to say, but it wasn't that. A mission? A mission for what? To rescue Mr. Barton, maybe? Was that why Ms. Romanoff was crying?

"What mission-?"

Mr. Stark waved his hand in a ' _quiet down'_ sort of gesture. Peter's mouth snapped shut.

"Long story short, Nebula led the team to Thanos' location. The idea was to recover the stones and reverse… everything."

What…?

What the hell did that have to do with Mr. Barton? It didn't. There were more things, more secrets. Bigger secrets than Peter could've fathomed. Peter could hear blood rushing in his ears and his fingers gripped the armrests of his chair with too much force. The metal molded around his fingers with an angry groan. Mr. Stark's gaze flickered to his white-knuckled hands with a cautious look.

"They were too late. The stones are gone and Thanos was killed." Mr. Stark said. Somehow, he was calm. The steadiness of his voice contradicted the content of his words. This was a joke. It had to be. A very elaborate and tasteless joke, because there was no way…

No possible way.

Mr. Stark's mouth set in a grim line. It's appearance on Mr. Stark's face was foreign to Peter, and the sight of it made everything real.

"That means that this is permanent," Mr. Stark stated firmly, but kindly. His words filled the silence as Peter's brain tried to make sense of it all.

"Killed." Peter heard his voice, though he couldn't feel his mouth move. "Who killed him?"

Mr. Stark wrapped a hand around Peter's stiff fingers and tried to gently loosen his grip on the chair. Peter had super strength which placed him at an unfair advantage over normal people, so he usually complied with these sorts of physical gestures. Now, it felt like an electric current was running through his body. He wouldn't be able to open his hand, even if he'd wanted to.

"It's not important, kid."

"Yes, it is."

Peter could feel his muscles jumping from the intensity of his stress. His rage simmered just under the surface, and he needed find a direction to channel it. Someone had fucked up, and it had cost every living being their chance to regain happiness. Something in Peter's expression must have told Mr. Stark that he wouldn't let this go, that he _couldn't_ let this go, because he stopped tugging at Peter's hand. He sat back in his chair, with a defeated sort of air.

"It was Thor."

Name. Direction. _Purpose_. The electric current that held Peter's body captive broke, and he sprung to his feet.

"How could he do that?! How could he kill him before we could find out all the facts?!"

Peter's voice ripped from his throat with such raw intensity that it stung at his vocal cords. Mr. Stark didn't flinch, as Peter though he might. Instead, he was watching him with a sort of hardened patience.

"There's nothing more he could've done, Pete."

"We could've found out more!" Peter's feet were moving, pacing. Rage compelled him to move and he couldn't stop. He could feel Mr. Stark's eyes following him. "What if there was an option that we didn't know about? A way to bring everyone back? Thor killed Thanos before we had a chance to find out!"

"The stones are destroyed. Using them to reverse the snap was our only option." Mr. Stark's voice was so irritatingly placating. It grated against Peter like sandpaper. Didn't he understand how severe this was? How could he make excuses for the guy who put the last nail in the coffin? "I know it's hard to accept, but this is our life now."

Mr. Stark was in front of Peter. His hands placed themselves firmly on Peter's shoulders to hold him still. Peter's hands twitched as he suppressed the instinctive urge to push Mr. Stark's hands away. With great restraint, he contained himself. The energy circulating in him caused him to tremble. Mr. Stark faced him head on. When pitted against Peter's raging turmoil, his eyes remained unwaveringly calm and somber. It was terrifying, and Peter felt something in him start to crumble.

"But the stones-" Peter began.

"Are gone." Mr. Stark finished for him.

Just like that, the fight left him. Peter felt light and he was certain that if Mr. Stark wasn't gripping his shoulders, he knees would have buckled. He barely registered the fact that Mr. Stark was pulling him closer, that his arms were wrapping around him and caging his unresponsive body.

"I don't say this to hurt you," Mr. Stark murmured, his voice rumbling against Peter's slight frame. "But we need to look at the future for what it is."

Little by little, the numbness left, and the pressure and warmth of Mr. Stark's hold on him made him feel grounded. Peter's own arms raised hesitantly and wrapped around Mr. Stark's back.

"M'sorry." Peter's voice was muffled by Mr. Stark's shirt. "I shouldn't have shouted at you."

"It's fine, kid. Shout if you need to. Do what'cha gotta do." Mr. Stark gave his body a slight squeeze before pulling away. A hand remained on his shoulder and it led Peter back to his seat. "I just wanted to clear the air before you decided to run off and pick a fight with a Demigod. You're a tough little Spiderling, but I'm not so sure that you would walk away from that fight with all your teeth."

"I wouldn't know where to find him anyway." Peter said as he sat down, suddenly exhausted from the day. "He went off on his own days ago."

Mr. Stark hummed lightly in agreement, but his eyes looked troubled as he took his own seat. Shame shrouded Peter as he realized, too late, that Mr. Stark probably wouldn't appreciate being reminded that his old friend is in such a terrible state. Just like how Ms. Romanoff hadn't appreciated all those questions about her lost friend. It would seem that Peter just couldn't say anything right today.

"Do you really think Thor would hurt me?" Peter joked as he tried to lighten the mood. Mr. Stark cracked a weak smile. It wasn't enough to banish Peter's guilt.

"Maybe not intentionally, but I mean, Point Break's got a mean swing. That's all I'm saying." Mr. Stark voice rang with a familiarly light candidness before his smile dropped. "Plus, he's hurting too." He added and Peter dropped his eyes to the table.

Despite his lingering rage, Peter couldn't help but feel ashamed for how he had acted. This was the world they were living in now. No take backs. No do-overs. All they could do was rebuild and move on. Peter had to accept that. He wasn't sure if he could.


	6. Searching for Home

"So, it was _really_ just a coincidence?"

A short and aggravated sigh escaped Dr. Banner, despite his obvious effort to remain composed. Peter knew that he should stop asking such needling questions. A politer and more considerate version of himself, one that didn't know the harrowing reality of genocide, would have dropped the issue long ago. At this point, his questions had become redundant, but he asked them anyway. He asked because he needed to know. This knowledge would benefit no one. Peter knew that. Nothing could be changed, but still he needed to understand all of it. Start to finish. He wouldn't know peace or be able to experience that _acceptance_ that Mr. Stark was so keen on until he did.

"I doubt it," Dr. Banner muttered while he stirred some milk in to his coffee. The spoon clanked against the ceramic loudly. The sound was jarring in the otherwise silent room. Peter wondered, with a small measure of alarm, if the mug might smash from the force. "Thanos must've known that the Tesseract was on the ship, but I don't know how he found out."

Dr. Banner's curt tone became harsher the longer he had to endure Peter's impromptu interrogation. His clipped words had formed a barricade against the onslaught of questions and speculations. It was a barricade that became more strongly fortified with each passing minute. It didn't matter. Nothing could dissuade Peter now. He was expecting Mr. Stark to show up any minute, so this was his last chance to speak with the one of the only survivors of Thanos' first attack. Maybe Dr. Banner realized that their time together was short, and that was why he was humouring Peter rather than fleeing from the kitchenette. For whatever reason, he stayed and Peter was glad to have this moment to pick the doctor's brain.

"Well, the Tesseract contained the space stone," Peter drawled, hoping to prompt Dr. Banner in to a discussion. He remained silent and sipped at his coffee. His eyes stared fixatedly at the counter top. "Maybe he was drawn to the Asgardian's ship? Like, maybe he was drawn to its power or something?"

Dr. Banner closed his eyes firmly, as though trying to shut out Peter's presence. The crows feet around his eyes deepened as his expression grew tight. In that moment, Peter was certain that Dr. Banner was no longer present in the kitchenette. He was far away, remembering something long since passed. Peter felt a familiar sense of guilt and shame twist in his throat. He had caused this with his relentless nagging. During the attack, Dr. Banner had been the Hulk. He didn't think that Dr. Banner could remember much of what he saw through the Other Guy's eyes. But maybe he could see it all. Remember it all. For a moment, Peter was struck with paralyzing horror by the notion of being such a powerless observer.

"Drawn to it? What, like wraiths to the ring of power?" Dr. Banner's biting sarcasm cut through the air and silenced the reflexive correction in Peter's mind before he had a chance to say it; they were called Ringwraiths, or sometimes Nazgûl. Peter was almost glad that Dr. Banner had managed to stun him into awkward silence before he had accidentally blurted that out. Dr. Banner's hard gaze became softer after a few seconds, and he rubbed a hand over his tired eyes. "I don't know, Peter. My doctorates are in biochemistry and nuclear physics, not space magic."

Magic.

The thing that had no business existing outside of fantasy, but somehow did. At first, Peter had enthusiastically rolled with the punches. Magic was real and wizards existed. Sure. Why not? It had been fun, working with Dr. Strange's sparkly magic to enhance his own fighting. Now that they had lost, and the dust had settled, the concept of magic had lost its allure. It unnerved Peter that something that was capable of instantaneous destruction was so poorly understood by most people. Magic had the power to take abstract concepts like reality and time and manifest them in to physical form. How was it possible? Furthermore, how could something as grand and ostentatious as neon-bright, sparkly, glowing magic escape Earth's attention until now? The rest of the universe seemed to be in the know about the existence of magic, so why had Earth been left out?

Peter's musings were cut short as his sensitive hearing caught the sound of familiar footsteps approached from behind. Peter knew without having to turn around that it was Mr. Stark. The relief found on Dr. Banner's face, as he caught sight of something behind Peter, further proved that it was him. The inevitable was here, and sparks of panic started to catch hold in Peter's chest. He couldn't leave now. He still had so many unanswered questions. He still didn't _understand_. A hand gripped Peter's shoulder, but still he didn't turn to look at Mr. Stark. He didn't want to face the reality that Mr. Stark brought with him. Didn't want to face the long road that led back to the city.

Back to Queens.

A tremble of nervous energy wracked Peter's body. He was certain that Mr. Stark had felt it under his palm, as his grip squeezed Peter's shoulder.

"C'mon, Pete. Time to go."

Peter's feet felt as though they had grown roots in to the tiled floor. His panic and desperation kept him pinned to the spot.

"But-"

"Pep's waiting in the car," He added gently while turning Peter's shoulder, prompting him to turn around. Mr. Stark's gaze met his. For just a moment Peter could see concern ceasing his face and knitting his brows together. In an instant, it was masked by his usual carefree air. "If we don't get a move on, she gonna leave without us."

"Pepper's not gonna ditch a kid." Dr. Banner said. "I mean, if it was just _you_ , then maybe."

Mr. Stark shot Dr. Banner an unamused look, and despite Peter's earlier panic, he couldn't help the small laugh that escaped him.

"I missed you so much, Brucie."

"I bet you did," he drawled. "So, am I still invited to your wedding?"

The question was delivered lightly. A poor attempt to mask a much more loaded question. Peter could practically hear the unspoken question resonating through the air; _'Are we still friends?'._ A palpable tension settled heavily and Peter saw Mr. Stark's sarcastic expression drop in to something more somber. Peter craned his neck to look over his shoulder. Behind him, Dr. Banner's gaze grew wary, as though he were regretting having asked that question. Peter cringed as a long second dragged on. Sometimes Peter's curiosity got him in to trouble, but he was a firm believer in not asking questions if he wasn't prepared to hear the answer. Good or bad.

"As long as it's just you. No plus one."

A look of relief washed over Dr. Banner's face. Peter felt his own shoulder's sag as tension he hadn't realized he was holding fell.

"I wouldn't miss it." Dr. Banner promised. Mr. Stark's hand wrapped around Peter's upper arm and gave a light tug. Peter followed suit, leaving the doctor, and soon the Avengers' Compound, in his wake.

* * *

It took two hours to drive to the city, thirty minutes to check in to the hotel penthouse that Mr. Stark had booked, and five seconds for Peter to convince Mr. Stark that that was enough excitement for one day. Queens would be waiting for them in the morning. Mr. Stark had given him an indecipherable look when Peter had offered up his last possible excuse for not going to Queens that day. Ms. Potts had immediately busied herself with putting away her luggage, and Peter suspected that she was trying to keep out of this as much as possible. Finally, Mr. Stark had agreed to go in the morning.

The morning came too quickly.

Peter's insistence that he could go back to his apartment alone was met with a resounding 'no'. Two of them in fact. To Peter's surprise, Ms. Potts was just as firmly against the idea of him going back home alone. It didn't make sense. Peter could take care of himself, they both knew that. Did they not have any faith in him? Did they really think that he needed so much coddling? He fought criminals on the daily, and he had thought that he had proved himself capable of such a simple task by now. Peter didn't dare to voice any of these thoughts aloud because it would've been rude and he would've regretted it. He determinedly ignored the voice in his head, which chimed in that May and Ben would be ashamed if he acted that way. They had raised him better than that.

With no more excuses to prevent him from going home, Peter found himself sitting in the passenger seat of Mr. Stark's car with an empty backpack at his feet. Mr. Stark cruised slowly through the streets of New York, from Manhattan to Queens.

To his neighbourhood.

To his _home_.

New York was nearly unrecognizable to Peter. It was disturbing to see his city in such a state. Not quite in ruins, but definitely looking much rougher than it had been when he had left it. Landmark buildings and street signs assure him that this is his neighbourhood, but everywhere he looked evidence of irreversible change was present. Nearly every shop had broken windows and looted items littered the street. Fresh graffiti tags crept up the sides of buildings. That wasn't unusual for New York. If anything, the tags should be comfortingly familiar to Peter. It was the messages, written in dripping spray paint, that caused his stomach to lurch.

' _Avengers'_ with the A written like the anarchy symbol. An A in a circle. Peter realized the Avengers' 'A' and the anarchy 'A' were virtually identical if the arrow was removed from the middle of the Avengers' insignia. Peter's cheeks flush with shame for having entertained such an arbitrary similarity, even for a second.

Anarchy was lawless insanity. Right now, that was the state of New York. The state of the world, and the universe beyond it. The Avengers had tried to protect everyone from that, but…

' _We are not saved'_

Red letters scrawled over one of the last completely intact shop windows. They threw accusations at Peter, and he tried to swallow the lump in his throat.

Some messages didn't need words. The spray-painted silhouettes were the ones that Peter couldn't bear to look at. The empty shapes of adults and children were imprinted on buildings. Shapes printed by living people to represent the dead. Shapes that would never be filled again.

Peter dropped his gaze to his feet to avoid the sight outside his window. The scenery moved slowly past him as Mr. Stark eased the car through the streets of Queens. Most of the abandoned cars had been removed from the street. They had likely been towed away and were now taking up space in a junk yard. Or they had been stolen. With keys left in the ignition and no owners to claim them, who was there to stop theft? Those owners would never return. Some smashed-up cars remained on the streets, causing road blocks in the streets and slowing the flow of traffic.

God, Peter had never seen so few cars on the streets before. Nor had he seen the touristy and upper-class areas look so shabby. The snap… it was the one great equalizer in life. It tore down everyone's lives, rich and poor. No one was unaffected.

All too soon, Peter's apartment building came in to view. It grew taller and more imposing as Mr. Stark drove the car up to the curb and shifted the gear in to park. A heavy breath clung to the inside of Peter's lungs and held him captive in his seat.

"Ready?"

No. Of course not. Peter's heart was beating against his ribs. He wasn't _ready_ to face the empty apartment. He never would be ready. He couldn't pack up his life as easily as he could the first time around because he understood so much more now. The shroud of childhood ignorance couldn't protect him like it could when he was five. He wouldn't be able to move on like he could before. Not from this.

A hand placed itself solidly on Peter's back, between his shoulder blades. Its weight was grounding and Peter felt like he could breathe again.

"You don't have to come with me," Peter muttered even though it was pointless to say at this point. He turned to look at Mr. Stark, who was looking at him with poorly hidden concern.

"Sure I do. Who else is gonna help you carry everything?" He joked and patted Peter's back once before pulling his hand back. Peter's eyebrows raised in disbelief. So, that was the excuse that Mr. Stark was going with? They both knew damn well that Mr. Stark's atrophied muscles were in no condition for any sort of heavy lifting. No, the real reason Mr. Stark was there was obvious. He was there because he felt the need to protect Peter. Because Mr. Stark was Iron Man, and a philanthropist, and he felt obligated to take in a kid that he barely knew. A soft glow shone through the fabric of Mr. Stark's jacket, and Peter knew that an arc reactor was attached to his shirt. Peter had considered pointing out the arc reactor's presence before, to call Mr. Stark out on his lie, but he couldn't bring himself to do it. He just wished that Mr. Stark would admit the truth, rather than going through with this charade.

"Okay, let's go." Peter said as he picked up the backpack and pulled open the car door. He kept his eyes forward and didn't turn to see if Mr. Stark was following him. He could hear him keeping pace a couple of steps behind.

Living in a rougher neighbourhood, Peter and May's apartment building had always looked kinda shabby. Just like every other building that they had passed, the apartment building looked even worse than it had before the snap. Peter's stomach sank as he saw that the outer door, which required a tenant's key, was broken and hanging off of its hinges. If the outer door was broken open, then the apartments inside…

Peter quickened his pace to a near run, and he could hear Mr. Stark doing the same. He awkwardly pushed the door so that there was a large enough gap for him to squeeze through. The hinges gave a shrill groan, which echoed in the empty lobby. Standing still in a slow-moving elevator was an impossible task for his jittery nerves. He took the stairs, running up them two at a time. Behind him, Mr. Stark called his name but Peter barely heard him. All he could focus on was the stairs. He was on the second floor. Then the third. Finally, the fourth, and his apartment came in to view.

The door had been kicked in.

A second passed. Then two or three. Peter couldn't move his legs. His body felt oddly disconnected, as though he existed only in his mind and nowhere else.

"FRIDAY says there are three heat signatures in there."

Mr. Stark's voice sounded slightly breathless. Peter hadn't even realized that he had caught up to him. A hand clasped his shoulder, and suddenly whatever trance that had kept him bound in place was broken.

His family had been lost.

His home had been lost.

He was alone with all of his ties forcibly cut loose. The cruelty of one determined and psychotic individual had left him no longer bound to anyone. And yet, somebody, three somebodies, _dared_ to steal what little he had left. Peter felt as though a switch had been flipped. Heat flared up inside of him, turning his blood to molten lava. He reached his hand up and pushed Mr. Stark's grip off of his shoulder.

"I can take care of myself," Peter ground out through clenched teeth, to both Mr. Stark and to himself.

"Peter-"

He was already moving, leaving Mr. Stark and his wary protests behind him. Long, swift strides brought Peter to his front door. It sat off kilter in the door frame, it's broken lock and warped hinges being as close to closed as it could be. Without sparing a thought to what awaited him inside, Peter threw open the door. Unbridled rage fueled his strength, and with a deafening bang, the door swung farther than it was ever intended to go and smashed in to the inside wall. The living room came in to view directly in front of Peter. On _his_ couch in _his_ living room a shaggy haired man sat bolt upright. His wide eyes darted between Peter and wrecked front door.

"What the hell..." Wide-eyes' voice wavered. Peter glanced at the door to see it suspended unnaturally in the wall. Its handle punctured a hole in the drywall and held it in position. Two sets of feet made quick stomping sounds and soon two other people, another man and a woman, joined Wide-eyes in the living room. They stood in stunned silence as Peter stepped in to his home.

"Get outta my apartment!" The words ripped from Peter throat with an intense fury unlike any that he had ever felt before. It was blinding and crackling all at once. It emanated from the core of his being and wracked his body with tremors. Behind him, Peter heard the unmistakable sounds of nanotech dispersing, interlocking, and building.

"Hey, man, we already called this place-" The man's words cut off abruptly as heavy armored footsteps approached the door. They stopped behind Peter, and a heavy gauntlet rested on Peter's shoulder. The fingers curled tightly in to Peter's shoulder, and he wondered if Mr. Stark thought it was necessary to hold him back. The man and woman adopted expressions of equal horror to accompany Wide-eyes'.

"He said 'get out'." The cold metallic order rang with a commanding presence that demanded no other option than immediate obedience. Peter knew that even if he lived for a hundred years, he could never command so much authority. The effect was immediate and the trio of squatters brushed past Peter in their haste to leave. Subtly, Mr. Stark's fingers curled tighter in to Peter's shoulder. Peter wasn't sure if that was meant as a warning or a precaution. It was unnecessary, since Peter didn't have it in him to withstand anger for any duration of time. Already, he could feel himself being drained, the rage sapping him of his strength. From the hallway, running footsteps echoed down the stairwell. They grew fainter and fainter until finally, he and Mr. Stark were left alone in the ransacked apartment.

"Thanks," Peter mumbled, glancing over his shoulder in time to see the nanotech retract Mr. Stark's helmet. He looked nearly as devastated as Peter felt. It was surprising to see, considering how in control he had been moments ago. But then again, he had been wearing a mask. Peter understood the confidence and strength that masks lent better than anyone. Mr. Stark's eyes searched Peter's expression for a moment. His mouth opened, as if he were about to say something, but then he hesitated.

"You're alright," Mr. Stark reassured and gave Peter a determined nod, as if that settled things. As if by saying that confidently enough, it made it real. Peter didn't know what to say in response to such a banal platitude so he headed towards the hallway leading towards his bedroom.

"Be right back," he called over his shoulder, and immediately felt stupid for saying it. Where else was he gonna go?

"Take your time. Let me know if you need help carrying anything," Mr. Stark called back, and Peter could hear the rest of his suit retract itself in to the arc reactor.

Peter strode down the hallway and gripped the empty backpack in his hands. He stood at the crossroads; the door to the left, May's room. Ahead of him, his own. His breathing hitched painfully in his lungs and he forced a deep breath to regulate it again. He needed to separate emotion from logic, or else he would never get through this. What did he need to do first? Pack up his clothes. There was no way that they would all fit in his backpack. An idea occurred to him, and without hesitation Peter pulled open May's bedroom door.

Peter kept his head down, and forced himself to look at nothing but the wood flooring and his feet. He kept one destination in mind and followed his feet to it. Reaching out with his hand, Peter clasped the closet door handle and pulled it open. Inside, on the floor, in the same spot as always, a navy-blue suitcase lay undisturbed. Leather lined the zipper and the initials 'B.F.P' were embossed in dull gold letters.

Ben's suitcase.

The sight of it gave Peter pause. A layer of dust coated it and it was one of the few things that remained untouched in the closet. He knew what he had to do. He didn't want to have to come back here again. He needed to know if there was any part of Ben or May left that Peter could take with him. Something besides a ratty, old suitcase. Peter turned to face the room, and his heart sunk.

Everything was ruined, or in some varying degree of a chaotic state. Peter didn't allow himself to linger on it. Didn't allow his mind the time to dwell on it. Instead he started searching. He found Ben's glasses with a small cracked in them from being handled too roughly. It was a small miracle that anything was still left, so with that Peter gripped the handle of the suitcase, turned and bolted out of the room. He pulled the door shut firmly behind him and released a breath that he hadn't been aware that he was holding. Leaning against the door, Peter slipped the glasses into his pocket before curled his arms around the suitcase and pressing it to his chest. His heart pounded and his hands left sweaty prints on the hard surface of the case.

"You okay?"

Mr. Stark's voice floated from the living room, giving him space but not really. Peter released a shaky breath and a flush crept up his cheeks. He wished more than anything that the man would have allowed him to come here alone. He felt uncomfortably exposed and embarrassed to be sharing his lowest moments with his mentor.

"M'fine," he ground out and leaned his head back against the closed door. Mustering his remaining strength and resolve, Peter turned to enter his bedroom.

Just like May and Ben's room, his was an absolute disaster. May would've complained that it _'looked like a tornado had been through here'_. At least this mess hadn't been Peter's doing.

The room had clearly been searched for valuables, not that Peter had much of those. All of his possessions were strewn about the floor. His closet was standing open and drawers were half opened. Peter noticed that his laptop was missing from his desk and he wondered how desperate the person who stole it must have been. It was held together with duct tape, for God's sake. It was ancient. No way was that thing worth any amount of money. With a sickening jolt, he remembered that his Chemistry research paper was on his computer. Now he would have to start over…

But there was no school to go back to.

Peter's stomach dropped as reality set in again. No school. No decathlon team. No Ned or MJ. That was a fact, Peter had already checked the census. All at once, his throat became much too tight.

' _Clothes,'_ Peter reminded himself, chasing his last train of thought from his mind. Determinedly, he kicked a clear space on the floor and dropped the unzipped suitcase on to it. His clothes, for the most part, remained as he had left them hanging in the closet. It would seem that even desperate thieves of crappy laptops had no interest in his nerdy graphic t-shirts. He grabbed them by the fist full, not bothering to fold them, and began stuffing the suitcase. With that done, he allowed his mind to move on analytically to the next necessity that he needed; his school books. His school books, which were in his backpack, which he had webbed to the side of a building in the city. In his haste to get to the alien invasion, he couldn't even remember which building he had webbed it to. Not that it mattered at this point. That webbing would have long since dissolved, and his stuff was gone.

Peter's breathing hitched again, and he tried to breathe deeply to stave off his escalating nerves. In the kitchen, the analog clock above the stove ticked. Peter focused on it and its rhythm.

' _You're alright.'_

Peter repeated Mr. Stark's reassurance to himself over and over again like a mantra. It didn't feel true, but it papered the cracks well enough. It held him together long enough to clear his mind.

What's next?

Peter's eyes roamed over his trashed room, and he realized with a sinking heart that his question should have been 'what's left?'.

Someone had destroyed his Lego sets. Tiny Millennium Falcon and Death Star bricks littered the floor. They were smashed in to pieces and scattered everywhere. Peter doubted that he would ever be able to find all the pieces to repair them, and if he was honest with himself, he didn't know that he wanted to. Nevertheless, Peter inspected the floor and under his bed, looking for any surviving keepsakes that he wanted to take with him. He didn't find much. In the end, all he came back with was a Lego car that he and Ned had built from imagination. Neither one of them had the patience to follow instructions back in those days. Elementary school aged Peter had the attention span of a gnat, and Ned hadn't been much better. The result was a small, multi-colour car that fit in the palm of his hand.

On the floor near his desk, Peter had found the only other thing worth keeping; his English notebook from the previous semester. He had no interest in keeping the notes that he had written in it. The part that was worth saving was the doodles drawn along the sides of the paper and in the margins.

MJ's drawings. Little treasures drawn in pen. The kind of pen that had four coloured inks in it. Black, blue, green, and red. She would lean over and doodle on Peter's page and he would avoid looking at it until she was done. It was a little surprise saved for the end of class that gave Peter more joy than it probably should have. It was nice to have something just between the two of them. Like an in-joke or a secret.

Peter took a moment to flip open the note book and look at one of the doodles. It was a picture of himself, drawn all bulky in green ink, holding Flash in one huge, green fist and flinging him around. A speech bubble came out of Hulk-Peter's mouth that said 'SMASH!'. At the time, Peter remembered suppressing his laughter when he saw the near finished product. It was truly an impressive piece, with a rough New York City skyline drawn across the bottom half of the page as a back drop for Hulk-Peter's bully revenge rampage. His notes on 'Lord of the Flies' fizzled out on the top of the page, as his own attention had waned.

' _Aren't you going to take some notes?' he had asked quietly. MJ hadn't even looked up. She just kept working on her masterpiece._

' _Yeah, yeah. Some kids get trapped on an island without any authority figures to keep them in line, so they turn in to lawless, murdering animals. It's a stupid book. People have more control than that. None of that would've gone down like that in real life.'_

Glancing around his trashed room, in his equally trashed apartment, Peter could feel the knot tightening in his throat again. It wasn't often that MJ was wrong. Usually, her cynical realism kept her judgments on point. Peter really wished she could've been right that time.

Everything about this place felt wrong. It wasn't his home anymore and it never would be again. The room was too small. Too cramped. The air was stifling and it was hard to breathe. With the notebook, Lego car, and glasses placed in Uncle Ben's suitcase, every surviving thing that Peter valued was packed up. He had no more reason to stay.

A sense of urgency caused Peter to pick up the suitcase and hurry out of the room. He couldn't stay here anymore. He needed to get out. The urge to cry was welling up in him, and Peter knew it was only a matter of time before he started. He wanted to be alone for that. He had already cried more times this week than he typically did in a year. He wanted to be out of Mr. Stark's presence when it happened again. It wasn't like Mr. Stark hadn't seen him cry before, but Peter was sure that there were only so many that his mentor could care. Soon, it would get irritating. Then it would become too aggravating, and maybe it would prompt Mr. Stark in to realizing that he didn't really want a kid. If Peter couldn't control himself, he might soon find himself without a place to live.

In the living room, Mr. Stark was standing right where Peter had left him. The man eyed him carefully and his gaze dropped to the one suitcase in his hand.

"Is that all?"

Peter nodded quickly, already moving towards the front door. He stopped in his tracks when he remembered something. Could it still be there? Peter whirled around and darted in to the kitchen. On a little shelf near the window, a stack of cookbooks remained untouched. Peter's heart leapt in to his throat as he pulled out the one that he wanted;

' _Anyone Can Cook: Italian Dishes Made Simple.'_

After May had added her own notes in to every recipe, thus rendering them inedible, Ben had written in sharpie on the cover 'edited by May Parker'. Peter slipped it into the suitcase and zipped it shut. With that he moved quickly to the front door, Mr. Stark trailing after him.

"We can always come back," Mr. Stark told him gently. A knife twisted in Peter's throat and he coughed to speak around it.

"I don't want to."

The rest of the walk down the four flights of stairs was silent, and Peter hoped that that was the end of it. All of his energy was focused on keeping himself together. The second his attention strayed, Peter knew he would crack.

Queens certainly hadn't wasted any time while they were inside. Someone had keyed Mr. Stark's car while they were inside. It was probably the three squatters that Mr. Stark had scared away. An ugly scratched in anarchy 'A', sprawled over the hood of the car. Someone had tried to smash the windows, but they were made of bullet proof glass. They remained intact with nothing more than a few scratches to indicate the attempted vandalism.

"I'm sorry," Peter croaked out. He truly was sorry. This right here was the tipping point. The last screw up that toppled everything. Unbidden tears stung at his eyes. This was another part of the reason why he wanted to come alone. He didn't want to inconvenience Mr. Stark even more than he already was. But here he was, wasting his time and his money.

"It's okay, Pete. It's nothing some buffing and a paint job won't fix."

Peter knew that was true. Compared to Mr. Stark's vast wealth, the cost of fixing the car wasn't even a drop in the bucket. It was almost insignificant. But Peter also knew that the little things added up. How many more little inconveniences would it take for Mr. Stark to tap out of… whatever it was that he and Peter had.

Mr. Stark's hands reached down to take the suitcase out of Peter's. He ignored the tears streaking down Peter's face and carried the case to the trunk of the car. Peter numbly moved forward, and the passenger door unlocked under his touch. Climbing in, Peter waited for Mr. Stark to get in to the driver's side. He stared at his knees, and heard the door open, Mr. Stark get in, and the door shut. A moment passed where neither of them knew what to say. Peter tried to dry his eyes in the collar of his shirt, but more tears came to replace them. It was a futile task. A hand rubbed small, soothing circles in Peter's back. Without meaning to, Peter shrank away from the touch and Mr. Stark's hand retracted immediately.

"You'll be alright," Mr. Stark promised as the keys turned in the ignition and the car came to life. It did nothing to lessen Peter's crying, but the platitude made him feel a bit better this time around. He wasn't alright right now, but there was still time. And maybe, someday, he could be.


	7. Insomnia

Peter's eyes were open, but the darkness of the room made it impossible to see anything. Even with his 'dialed to eleven' eye sight, he couldn't make out anything around him. The thick curtains that the hotel had invested in did their job a little too well, blocking out all of the light from the streets below. To most, lying in a marshmallow bed engulfed in darkness would be a calming end to a long day. But for Peter, the absence of light didn't incite any sort of tranquility in him. The days no longer held any significance for the night to deliver reprieve from. The sun revolved around the Earth, rising and falling, and indicating brazenly for all to see that time was marching forward. That days were turning into weeks, and soon those weeks would become months and years. Time, the unstoppable force, pressed on mercilessly leaving May, Ned, and MJ behind.

The world seemed to turn faster than Peter could keep up with. Every second became an hour, and then a day, and responsibilities were piling up. He wanted to pause it all and catch his breath. Days and nights flowed seamlessly, one into the next, indifferent to Peter's needs. These transitional days that separated before and after were finite. Soon, some hard decision would have to be made. Decisions that would affect the rest of his life. Mr. Stark broached no more than one tough question a day, because any more than that would be too overwhelming.

" _Do you want to go back to Midtown in September?"_

" _No."_

" _Hey, no worries. I can home school you if you want-"_

" _No. I don't want to bother-"_

" _It's not a bother, ki-"_

" _I'll go back to school."_

A split second decision, but the right one. Peter reassured himself of this time and again, ever time he remembered that brief moment after he had rejected Mr. Stark's offer. The way his expression had fallen, just for a moment, but long enough for Peter's heart to squeeze painfully. A second later, his features had smoothed out, but Peter could see the hurt remain in his eyes. Peter's throat would constrict whenever his mind strayed to that moment, but then he would strengthen his resolve.

This was for the best. Mr. Stark liked the _idea_ of schooling Peter. He probably thought it would be like their fun weekly lab sessions. A few hours a week filled with jokes, laughter, and the occasional chemical explosion. In practice, home school would be much different. Seven hours a day, Monday through Friday, and Mr. Stark would come to regret his decision. Peter could already see it with terrible clarity: the moment when Mr. Stark would get tired of all the work. The moment when the appeal of whatever drew him to take on the role of guardian became dull and lackluster. The moment when he would realize that, unlike May and Ben, blood didn't tie them together and he was free to leave Peter if he wanted.

Abandonment by choice. The threat of it shrouded every day and dictated all of Peter's actions with its invisible force. Losing the last person that he cared about to apathy. The thought had him wincing from a wound not yet inflicted. It was as if he could see his entire future stretched out before him. Years robbed of their light because there was no one there to illuminate them. No one to share them with. Years spent searching for what he had lost and finding no one at all.

Above all else, that kept him awake at night. It was a unique fear; cold and utterly paralyzing.

One consolation kept his panic at bay: Mr. Stark hadn't had this realization yet. Things between Peter and Mr. Stark weren't good, not by a long shot, but they were stable. And that was enough. Nothing could change. Change would threaten the stability of his life, and so Peter was compelled to place no more demands on Mr. Stark's time. If life could be suspended in stasis in these transitional days, things would be fine.

So, Peter would go to school.

Alone.

Mr. Stark had explained to him that he would need to take an entrance exam for his senior year in lieu of his junior year final exams. Rather than holding back an entire generation of students, the school board had decided to hold these exams to assess the capability of the surviving students. The school year had only been a few weeks away from summer break before… everything had fallen apart. The date for the exam was set for August. With that deadline set, Peter devoted himself to his studies. He submerged himself entirely in chemistry formulas, spent hours committing historical dates to memory, and he nitpicked every goddamn literary device out of 'Lord of the Flies' and 'Animal Farm'. The distraction helped to keep his mind off of the immeasurable sorrow born from the idea of finishing school alone. Without Ned and MJ. Without May or Ben or his parents to cheer from the audience. Mr. Stark would come, because he liked Peter. Ms. Potts might come too. She was kind to Peter and seemed to like him well enough… for now. Graduation was in a year. That was plenty enough time for her to become resentful of Peter's presence. Or rather, his imposition. With a million responsibilities on her plate, she would be well in her right to hate Peter for coming in to her home and monopolizing Mr. Stark's time.

Mr. Stark was there at the hotel for every monotonous day that Peter struggled to get through. Tutoring him in subjects that he didn't really need help with. Reassuring him that he was there, ready and available, if Peter needed anything.

Peter hated that. Hated that he was being treated like he was made of glass. Hated the fact that he sometimes did feel breakable. Hated the way that his mentor was constantly preoccupied with him. But most of all, he hated the strain that he was undoubtedly placing on Mr. Stark's relationship with his fiancée.

Ms. Potts would return to the penthouse every day, tired and frazzled. Her job as CEO of Stark Industries brought about much more responsibility now that the company was lending its aid to help repair the state of the world. What she really needed now was Mr. Stark by her side to help ease some of the work load. Instead, he was working from home, or... hotel, so that he could keep an eye on Peter. How could she not resent Peter for pulling Mr. Stark's focus away from the company at this crucial time? It didn't matter how many times Peter insisted that he was fine and that he could be left alone during the day. Neither Ms. Potts nor Mr. Stark listened to him, and both of them dismissed his insistence that Mr. Stark carry on with his life as usual with compassionate but firm refusals.

There was, of course, a much better alternative that could provide Peter with distraction while freeing up Mr. Stark's time as well; Patrolling Queens and providing damage control. That kind of distraction would make him useful at least, but according to Mr. Stark he wasn't ready.

That lack of faith stung worse than any of Mr. Stark's previous verbal barbs, because he had proven himself, right? Obviously, he couldn't handle apocalyptic level threats, but he could take care of his own city. He was an Avenger. Mr. Stark had said so. He must've had faith in Peter before, since he had offered for him to join the Avengers. Twice. But that faith disappeared in the fall out of the snap. It had been Quill who had ruined the plan, but it was Peter who failed to get the gauntlet off. Mr. Stark had been relying on him, and Peter hadn't been strong enough.

He had let Mr. Stark down and his incompetence had left the universe tumbling in a free fall. Redemption was an impossible dream, but it was one that he still strove for. That was where Spider-Man was needed.

Peter Parker needed Spider-Man to save him just as much as the citizens of New York did.

It was infuriating to be heard but not listened to. His plea to go out patrolling, to be _of use_ , was ignored. Patrolling had helped him to cope with his uncle's death because it gave him a way to assuage his guilt. Without Spider-Man, Peter Parker had nothing to save himself from drowning in the guilt of countless mistakes and disasters. Spider-Man gave Peter Parker's life meaning in a way that nothing else ever could. Without him, Peter was just a kid.

A kid with complexes and incurable insomnia.

Sleep was elusive these nights, just as it had been in the weeks following Ben's death. Insurmountable regret looped countless _'what if'_ and _'maybe'_ scenarios through Peter's mind in a vicious cycle until eventually the fatigue would make him crash. Each day, Peter would wade through the day and make it to the night, just to find himself in this exact same position; lying in a marshmallow bed and staring in to the darkness of his room. Eventually, he would fall asleep and wash, rinse, repeat the entire day all over again in the morning.

How many hours had passed? How long had Peter been tossing in his bed, spiraling in his thoughts? The penthouse was silent, Mr. Stark and Ms. Potts having long since gone to sleep. Peter reached over to his bed side table and nudged his phone to display the time.

_4:12 am._

Five hours. Yeah, that felt right. Peter's joints felt stiff from lying in one position for so long. They popped as he reached over to pick up his phone and a pair of headphones. His mind was bouncing from one worry to the next. He needed a distraction. Something to quiet down his thoughts until sleep claimed him.

LED light pierced through the darkness and punched Peter's retinas. He flinched and turned the brightness on his phone down. May's distant voice chided him for _'being on his phone instead of sleeping! Go to bed!'_. He slipped his earphones in to his ears to drown her out. He brought up YouTube, cause why not, and his finger slid up the screen as he scrolled through the trending list. He didn't have to scroll for long before a video title caught his eye and stopped his heart.

' _Steve Rogers Apologizes on Behalf of the Avengers'_

A thumbnail of Captain Rogers, dressed in a fine suit and looking very put together, lay just below Peter's fingertip. Published by CNN, four days ago. Ten million views. Icy fingers were clenching his heart. Did he want to do this? No, he really didn't. This would just be rubbing salt in his wounds. But still, he had to know. Hadn't he made that promise to himself to find out as much about this disaster as he could? There existed a chance, an unlikely chance but still a chance, that there was information in this video that Peter wasn't aware of. He would never forgive himself if he passed it by just because he wasn't brave enough to face another reminder of the current reality. Forcibly, he pressed his trembling finger down.

Behind a podium, Captain Rogers severe expression overlooked a crowd of journalists. It was unnervingly stern and guarded, unlike any other time that Peter had seen the man. The sound of cameras snapping pictures preluded his words.

"On May 4th 2012, New York City was attacked for the first time by aliens. We learned that day that we are not alone in the universe, and that hostile alien races have the power and technology to threaten our existence. Now, six years later, on Friday May 11th of this year, we were attacked once more. These two invasions were connected, and we have learned that the attack that occurred last month was an extension of the first attack in 2012. Both of them were ordered by the tyrant alien Thanos, and both times he had one goal in mind; Depopulation of the universe through means of genocide."

Peter's heart was in his throat as he listened with rapt attention to the Captain recapping events that he was already aware of. Despite the fact that Peter had known for a month what had caused the disappearance of half of all life, that he had been there when the battle took place, the news still struck him like a blow to the stomach and left him feeling winded.

"What happened was a horrific tragedy. No, it was more than that. It was a cataclysmic atrocity unlike anything that anyone has ever seen before. It has affected the lives of everyone." A crack appeared in Captain Rogers' facade, revealing a glimpse of the tortured soul that lay beneath. A soul that had loved and lost too much. A soul that was tired of fighting for life's promises, only to find them false. An old man's tired eyes looked out of the captain's young face. He closed them for a moment, as though he were trying to keep the anguish at bay. Too late. Peter had seen it. Worse, Peter had felt it. Had been held captive to it as it seeped through the screen and held Peter's throat in a strangle hold.

God, he couldn't breathe.

"I didn't come here today to offer a plan," Captain Rogers continued, his trembling hands coming to rest on the podium. "I don't pretend to know how we, the survivors, are supposed to move on. How we will achieve our future, or what it might look like. I came to apologize." An iron hand clenched Peter's stomach. "The purpose of the Avengers was to protect the Earth and its people from danger, and we failed to do that. I failed to do that," he amended. No, Peter thought that he had it right the first time. _They_ had failed. The Avengers was not a one-man organization. In the years before Mr. Stark had recruited Peter, the Avengers had been a united front. But now only one stood to face the world and its judgment, armed with nothing more than words. It felt sickening to watch. "I don't have the words to express how sorry I am for the profound loss of life-"

Peter's finger tapped the screen, pausing the video. He couldn't listen anymore. Knots twisted painfully in his throat, as his gaze lingered on the still frame of Captain America's face.

_Don't look down. They'll tear him to shreds._ Despite his own warning, Peter's treacherous eyes trailed down to the comments section.

' _Sorry? Are the words of a war criminal worth anything?'_

' _My mom is gone. She crumbled right in front of me. I can't forgive you.'_

Small blessings. Peter didn't see May go. That comment stung. Why was he doing this? What was wrong with him?

' _Are the Avengers still a thing?'_

' _Where's Tony Stark in all of this? The guy's ghosting us right now? Seriously?'_

Yes, he was ghosting the world to babysit a teenager. If Peter wasn't so miserable, he would be embarrassed.

' _Give the guy a break! He's grieving just like the rest of us! Iron Man is just a man.'_

Below the text, a link to the Daily Bugle was included. And below that, one reply:

'" _Iron Man is just a man"? Is that 2018's "Leave Britney alone"?'_

A bark of breathy laughter escaped Peter as he clicked on the link. Oh, God. He shouldn't have laughed at that. It was so inappropriate. He was definitely going to hell for that, but still, he was pleasantly surprised that anyone could still have a sense of humour as the world was set ablaze.

_Tony Stark Retires from Hero Work AND Stark Industries?_

The headline dashed all thoughts from Peter's mind and rendered it blank. This was… speculation, right? Mr. Stark hadn't really gone out much since his return to Earth, but that didn't mean he was retiring indefinitely. Peter would know, wouldn't he? He lived with the guy. Retirement seemed like something that would come up in conversation.

' _Well, it can certainly be said that Tony Stark doesn't do anything by half measures. We have seen instances of Stark's extreme commitment to impulsive decisions in the past, such as his initial decision to change the direction of Stark Industries in 2008. Now, it would seem that abandonment of the people that he swore to protect is the new impulse that he is indulging.'_

Peter was gripping his phone too tight, and he made an effort to loosen his grip lest he break it. Who the hell was this wannabe, hack news reporter to trash Mr. Stark's name like that? A deep breath helped to smooth Peter's pinched brow, but it did nothing to dispel the heated flush creeping up his collar.

' _Not only has Iron Man decided to hang up his helmet, but it would seem that Tony Stark is also retiring from his own company. Unfortunately, Stark has declined all invitations for interviews. Instead, a single written statement was released by the billionaire, a few days after his return to Earth. According to his statement, Tony Stark has '… formally resigned from the Avengers and [is] no longer affiliated with the organization in any way… [He has] decided to retire from [his] work in order to take time to be with [his] family.' Though it is unclear whether the 'work' that Mr. Stark refers to is his hero work or his work designing and engineering technology for his company, it is undeniable that we, the public, are left to fend for ourselves.'_

No.

That couldn't be right. Peter reread the statement, Mr. Stark's own words, once, twice, and then a third time. It was the same each time. No secret meaning was revealed. He didn't miss anything. His eyes glazed over, turning the text into black blurs on white light.

Mr. Stark had quit the Avengers. That shouldn't have surprised Peter, but it did. Mr. Stark hadn't said in as many words that he was going to quit, but his body language and the way he interacted with the team… there was too much bad blood there. Too much distrust to salvage a team. Peter understood that. It made sense that Mr. Stark wouldn't stay with them… and yet an ember of resentment flared inside of him. The same one that was lit the first time Mr. Stark had told him to accept this reality, that it was permanent, that he had to move on. The same one that was stoked by Dr. Banner's pitying gaze, Ms. Potts' soft touches, and Captain Rogers' resigned expression.

They had given up.

All of them.

Mr. Stark's statement was proof that he had given up too. Peter couldn't be mad at that. He willed himself not to be despite his heated cheeks, because Mr. Stark had earned his retirement. He deserved it more than anyone. He had given so much to the world and he was lucky enough to still have his fiancée alive and waiting for him. They wanted a life together, and they should have it.

Peter tried not to think about the sentiment behind Mr. Stark's decision. The unsaid but obvious belief that no one that they had lost could be save. That May couldn't be saved. That there wasn't even a chance. He tried to bury it under the surface. Mr. Stark wanted to be with his family, and given the miracle that Ms. Potts was still alive, he would be an idiot to squander that time.

_His family._

The words came in to sharp focus just as his phone went to sleep and the screen went dark. They sat like a weight on Peter's chest and he squirmed uncomfortably to shake the feeling. They were Mr. Stark's words, no doubt chosen for the sake of brevity. To say that he wanted 'to be with his soon-to-be wife and orphaned intern', was too wordy. It would clutter up an otherwise concise statement.

Pulling the headphones from his ears, Peter tossed them and the phone on to the blanket beside him. A new concoction of feelings roiled in him, and added fuel to his previous worries. There would be no sleep tonight, but then again Peter hadn't really been expecting it. He nudged his phone again and the time lit up and disappeared like a slow pulse.

4:55 am.

In an hour and a half, the sun would rise and it would be tomorrow without today fully ending. The lines blur together, but who cares.

Wash, rinse, repeat.


	8. His Family

Sometimes, Peter would think about his parents. It wasn't often that he did since the years had worn down his memories of them to vague fragments with little context to make sense of them. But every now and then, he would recall how serious his dad had been. How his mom had been soft spoken and calm when speaking to anyone, not just her young son. How their household – normal to Peter until he had others to compare it to- had been fairly strict about tidiness. His parents had probably loved each other – Aunt May and Uncle Ben had said that they did – but their displays of affection must have been too subtle for Peter's younger self to notice. He felt it's presence, the love, though he couldn't remember ever seeing it. That was the important thing.

Then they were gone, and Peter was whisked off to live with his aunt and uncle. Though he didn't know it at the time, Peter could see now how amid the tears and confusion his life had been paused and reset on a new track. Uncle Ben was goofy. His dad hadn't been. Aunt May was loud and teasing. His mom had been quieter, more reserved. His aunt and uncle expressed affection more openly then his parents had. Ben would casually press a kiss to May's cheek when he set down her plate in front of her at the table, and they had both laughed at Peter's unabashed gawking the first time he had seen them do it. It had been strange and a little frightening to see his parent's roles being filled by people who were so different from them. To be cared for by relatives that he had only ever seen on Christmas and Thanksgiving. He had felt out of place living at his aunt and uncle's apartment, like an outsider looking in on something wonderful but unattainable. He didn't know how to act around them, how to live in their lives, how to _be_ their boy.

Looking back on it, Peter couldn't place his finger on the exact moment when he had stopped expecting his parents to walk through the door and take him home from his very long visit to his aunt and uncle's house. Something had shifted gradually, and soon Peter didn't find it strange to see May loop her arms around Ben's waist in a quick hug. For Ben to hold her hand while they watched tv or to ruffle Peter's hair as he passed by. Somewhere, sprinkled between the days and weeks, something special had been built. Two and one had merged in to a unit of three. Three who belonged together and were needed. Three who understood each other.

It had been so easy back then to feel comfortable in someone else's life. So why was it so hard to do now? Why couldn't he replicate what his five-year-old self had done so effortlessly? His younger self had managed to fit himself seamlessly in to his new life, despite how jarringly different it had been from his old one. But now…

"That's a good looking salad," Mr. Stark said as he peered in to the colander full of washed and pre-cut salad that Ms. Potts was shaking. Drops of water sprinkled like rain in to the basin of the kitchen sink.

"Yeah?"

"Sure is." Mr. Stark turned back to his task of scooping rice on to the plates. "I'd say it's a solid 12% contribution to the meal."

There was something there. Peter felt it from his place at the table; the presence of an old in-joke that went over his head. Peter shifted uncomfortably in his seat and straightened the silverware with fidgety fingers.

"Says you," Ms. Potts rallied back with a smirk. She poured the lettuce in to a large bowl and slid in a pair of salad tongs. "Look at how big it is. It's easily 1/4 of the meal. No, I'm demanding 20-25% credit for dinner tonight."

Peter knew that Ms. Potts had been Mr. Stark's personal assistant for years before their professional relationship had become romantic, but he had never seen this dynamic of it before. The way that their old professional roles bled in and tinged the edges of their personal relationship.

"Not a chance." Mr. Stark set down the plates on the table as Ms. Potts set the salad down next to the plate of dinner rolls. "The salad's store bought, and the percentage reflects the quality, not the quantity, of the contribution. Isn't that right, kid?" His eyes lifted to meet Peter's. They were lit up with amusement and his expression held a general openness. Peter saw the invitation to join the conversation. To drop his guard, give in, and play along with the joke.

But he didn't know this joke, so how could he play along? Why was 12% significant? What should he say? Should he agree with Mr. Stark? On the tip of his tongue was the smart-ass, cautionary phrase _'You're playing a dangerous game, Mr. Stark'_. Needling his fiancée with pointless bickering seemed dangerous to Peter. It would have annoyed the shit out of May if Ben had pushed her buttons as frequently as Mr. Stark did to Ms. Potts. But Ms. Potts was smiling, so what did he know.

Peter choked.

"Mhmm," Peter mumbled and tried to remain physically unmoved. To not give in to his desire to shy away in to his seat as disappointment snuffed out the light in Mr. Stark's eyes. For a moment, always for just a moment, then a playful façade replaced the genuine happiness. As always, when Peter found himself unintentionally being a kill-joy, his gaze dropped and his shoulders tightened. It was fairly frequent these days.

"See, Pete made the rolls from scratch, so he deserves more credit," Mr. Stark said to Ms. Potts, carrying the light conversation with ease. "I say that the final break down is 12% to Miss Potts for the salad, 40% to the kid for the rolls, and 48% to me for this delicious and savory chicken and rice."

"It's burnt," Ms. Potts said flatly.

A small smile tugged at Peter's face as he hooked a fork tine under the blackened chicken skin and rolled it off. He pushed it to the edge of his plate and cleared a small space for the salad.

"Anyone with any grievances can take it up with management." Mr. Stark stated in a slightly louder voice, as if to settle things.

"Did you forget that _I'm_ the management?"

An unexpected laugh burst from Peter's throat and caused his grip to loosen on the salad tongs. The lettuce fell back to the heap in the bowl and Peter pressed his unoccupied hand to his mouth to stifle himself. Across the table, Mr. Stark and Ms. Potts looked at him, smiling and silently inviting. Twinkling eyes, blue and brown, encouraged him to stay here, on the inside where there were three. It was tempting.

"Yes, I temporarily got carried away with my own joke," Mr. Stark admitted sheepishly. He sent a wink Peter's way from the eye that Ms. Potts couldn't see, as if to say _'You and me, we know who's really the boss'_. Peter was pretty sure that the answer was still Ms. Potts, and though Mr. Stark wouldn't admit it, Peter knew that he thought so too. Who knows why he continued with this charade of pretending that she wasn't running the show. Smiling to himself, Peter grabbed a roll off of the plate and began buttering it.

"So, Peter, you like to bake?" Ms. Potts asked and skewered a patch of unburnt chicken with her fork. Peter hummed in confirmation around a mouth full of bread.

"Yeah, sometimes," Peter said once his mouth was clear. "When I get bored, it's a good time filler," he added without thinking. It came out light and without fear of consequences, as if he were talking to May. But he wasn't talking to May. The significance of his own words hit him and he froze. He remembered who he was talking to; the people who took care of him, but didn't have to. The people who were trying _so hard_ to make life good for him, and who didn't need to hear his pathetic whining about being _bored_. Not when Mr. Stark had already invested so much of his time and money into Peter's well-being. "Not that I am bored!" he blurted out, eyes wide and panicked. "I'm sorry, I don't know why I said that-"

"It's okay, kid," Mr. Stark waved his hand in a pacifying gesture, as if that would tamp down Peter's nerves. "I know being cooped up and working your nose to the grind stone over physics equations and chemistry formulas isn't exactly fun. No need to explain."

Mr. Stark smiled wearily at him, and Peter gave his own weak smile in return. He felt it then, the barricade drawn across the table separating Mr. Stark and Ms. Potts from himself. He was on his own again, on the outside looking in. Peter poked at his dinner, mumbling his one word replies whenever Mr. Stark or Ms. Potts would try to draw him in to the conversation again. Eventually, they gave up and talked between the two of them.

' _Altruism can't create a family. The pity makes it weird.'_ Peter caught himself thinking. He could feel Mr. Stark's worrying gaze washing over him like a heat lamp, but he didn't dare to look up from his dinner. He just continued to eat in silence, all the while berating himself for entertaining an impossible idea.

* * *

Living with Aunt May and Uncle Ben, the unspoken rule of the household was _'agree to disagree'_. Clashing ideas were hardly ever deemed important enough to waste energy fighting over. The two of them had been of one mind when it came to most things, but in the rare moments when May would say _'potato'_ and Ben would counter with _'tomato'_ , they would both shrug and agree that the other was a perfectly good vegetable. And that was that.

Living with Mr. Stark and Ms. Potts was almost the complete opposite in that aspect. They disagreed _a lot_ , and bantering seemed to be their preferred method of communication. At first, the quips and sharp retorts left Peter feeling uneasy. But then he saw the small smiles and teasing sparks shot from loving glances, and he realized that there was no real cause for worry. Their snarking wasn't serious… it's just how they were. In time, Peter grew comfortable around it, just as he had with Ben and May's open affection. It was just their way of expressing themselves.

What he wasn't comfortable around was the arguing. The heated kind that was saved for when Peter was out of ear shot. Or rather, when they _thought_ he was out of ear shot. Every now and then, Peter would hear snippets of conversations delivered in exasperated and irritated tones. To make matters worse, they were always arguing about him.

The first time he had overheard them talking, it really was an accident. He hadn't meant to listen in on them, but once he had realized that they were talking about him, Peter couldn't make his feet move from outside the front door of the penthouse like he knew he should.

"It might help, if he could do something normal again," Ms. Potts' muffled voice said from the depths of the apartment. To others, barely audible noise but to Peter, clear and crisp words.

"Crime fighting's not a normal pastime," Mr. Stark shot back.

"It is for him. He's been doing it for years."

Peter's ears perked up as he held his house keys in his hand. They were talking about Peter being Spider-Man again, and for some reason Ms. Potts was on Peter's side. Not that Peter was going to question why she was. He was just glad that someone that Mr. Stark respected the opinion of was advocating for him. He tried really hard not to dwell on the guilt churning inside him for being the cause of their argument in the first place.

"Yeah, that's on me. I shouldn't have been a selfish ass by recruiting a fourteen-year-old, _I know_."

"That's not where I was going with that and you know it. You can't change the subject with self-deprecation."

"Can't I?"

Peter's eyes widened as his lips pressed themselves in to a tense line. Oh, that was ballsy… and most defiantly not worth Ms. Potts' wrath.

"I'm just saying that he's bored-" Ms. Potts continued without missing a beat. She didn't sound angry, much to Peter's surprise. Just vaguely annoyed and done with everything.

"I'll get him into a new hobby!" Mr. Stark cut her off, sounding both tired and irritated at the same time. "Stamp collecting could be just as fun as vigilantism."

"Stamp collecting?" Ms. Potts' disbelief mirrored Peter's own, and he felt his nose crinkle in annoyance.

"Yeah, if I pitch the idea as old school Pokémon Go, do you think he'd go for it? It's not a total lie. He would have to go places to collect them, cause who the hell send letters anymore."

"You're ridiculous."

Peter decided to leave it at that. Clearly, their argument wasn't going to reveal anything meaningful, and honestly, the guilt he felt for eavesdropping was starting to get to him. So, he turned and walked quietly down the hall to the elevator, deciding that he should find somewhere else to be for a couple hours.

The second time Peter heard Mr. Stark and Ms. Potts argue, he had been on the couch in that fuzzy state of semi-consciousness. A blanket that Peter hadn't put on himself was draped over his body and the tv was rolling the credits for… some movie. In the transition between asleep and awake, Peter couldn't remember what they had been watching. Hushed voices, muffled by barriers - doors? Walls?- permeated the fog of his brain and prodded him awake.

"I _am_ going to give him his suit back, just not now." Mr. Stark ground out in a deliberately quiet and controlled tone. Like a stage whisper, but more aggravated. The sound of it put Peter on edge and left his brain fighting to escape the dredges of sleep. "It's too dangerous out there, Pep."

"It's going to be dangerous for a long time. How long are you going to make him wait?"

"Until Rhodey, Cap, and Natasha put all those jail break convicts back in the clink. I don't want that mess anywhere near Peter."

With a numb hand – he had fallen asleep lying on top of it- Peter rubbed the sleep out of his eyes. Convicts? What convicts? His mind ran, or rather stumbled, along on a hamster wheel. Oh, that's right. They had heard about it on the news that day. A mass jail break caused by a lack of staff to adequately guard the prison.

"Aren't you worried that he's going to run off and do it anyway? This _is_ Peter we're talking about."

Though he was barely conscious, Peter felt a flush of shame creep up his cheeks. Disobedience wasn't what he wanted to be known for, but a plane crash and a stowaway mission to space later, and it was apparently his claim to fame. Nice.

"No, Underoos and I have already gone down that road. He wouldn't do that to me again." Mr. Stark's voice sounded certain, but pained. Peter stomach sunk as a barrage of past chastising lectures broke free from his memory. He sat soaking wet on a dome shaped jungle gym, trembling from stress on top of a building near the ocean, encased in a shiny new suit on a ship shooting away from Earth. Each time, he disappointed Mr. Stark a little more, but he hadn't realized how much worry he had caused him. The full extent of it shined through Mr. Stark's cracked voice, and a lump formed in Peter's throat. He swallowed thickly around it in an impossible effort to dislodge it. "Look, I promised you, no more surprises." Mr. Stark sounded tired and for some reason it scared Peter. "And, yeah, I've failed spectacularly on that front more times than you should have to tolerate. But I really mean it this time, Pep. No more surprises. That means I'm putting Iron Man in the closet, permanently, and the kid knows that. He knows I'm quitting the hero life, cold turkey. We had a talk about… recklessness and personal responsibility. And about how it would be unfair for him to dive into trouble too deep and then expect me to be there to help out. I can't do it anymore. I won't."

As silently as possible, Peter climbed to his feet, still clutching the blanket around his shoulders like a cape. His shoulders sagged under the weight of it, as if it were made of lead instead of fleece and cotton. It dragged silently on the hardwood floor, as Peter's socked feet shuffled to his room.

"It's not fair to you, and to be honest I'm getting too old for this shit."

"Tony-"

Peter closed the door, and gently released the turned handle. The latch slid soundlessly in to the door frame.

"Don't tell the kid I said that. I'll never hear the end of the old man jokes."

"Peter wouldn't-"

But Peter never found out what he wouldn't do. Music from his headphones drowned out the rest of Ms. Potts' words. Still inside his blanket, Peter quietly curled up on his bed. He took a moment to take inventory of himself. There was hope there. Hope from the confirmation that he could be Spider-Man again… eventually. But also, a lingering and inexplicable sadness that pressed on his chest. Whenever he did get Spider-Man back, Peter would be working solo. It was strange… how many times had Peter wished that Mr. Stark wouldn't treat him like a kid. Well, now it was here. Iron Man was cutting the apron strings from Spider-Man, but all Peter could feel was a sort of indecipherable ache. Mr. Stark was right, of course. It was unfair for Peter to rely on him as much as he did. He wanted a life with his wife, and he _was_ getting older.

They all were. Peter included. It was time that he acted like it.

The third time Peter eavesdropped on Mr. Stark and Ms. Potts he was doing it deliberately. In his defense, he had strong reason to believe that, since the last two arguments had been about him starting up his patrols again, the next argument would pick up where they had left off. He just wanted to know what was happening. When he would be allowed to get his life back on track. When action could give him peace of mind again.

When he would be able to sleep at night.

He could sense the tension simmering in the apartment since Mr. Stark and Ms. Potts had started arguing about Peter's future in hero work. So, that night, Peter decided to give them the opportunity to hash it out. Maybe Ms. Potts could finally convince Mr. Stark that things would be fine. Peter had been with them long enough to know that Ms. Potts was very good at getting her way. Worst case scenario, they would run in circles again.

It couldn't be obvious that he was trying to listen in. He didn't want them to think that Peter would invade their privacy whenever he felt like it. It's just… this was a one-time thing, he told himself. His future was being discussed after all… he had a right to know. He needed to be discreet and slip it in among his daily routine. So, after dinner Peter went take his usual shower. He would take that opportunity to listen and to see if they would discuss him more freely if they thought that their words were masked by the running water. Standing in the bathroom with the shower running, fully clothed and pressing his ear to the crack in the barely open door, Peter wasn't disappointed.

"-should tell him soon. You're already at eight weeks. It'll be obvious before long," Mr. Stark said, his words suppressed by their closed bedroom door.

"Tread lightly," Ms. Potts cautioned.

"I mean, you'll be as beautiful and radiant as always," Mr. Stark backtracked quickly, "but the kid's no slouch in the mystery solving department. He should hear it from us before his senses piece the puzzle together. That would be awkward."

Radiant? Peter cringed at Mr. Stark's poor choice of words. Who calls someone 'radiant'? That was one of those uncomfortable and awkward descriptors that Peter only ever heard, in relation to women, to describe their pregnancy.

Oh.

Steam was starting to spilling over the top of the shower curtain, filling the small room with its heat. It didn't reach Peter, or at least, he didn't feel it.

"His senses…?" Ms. Potts trailed off. "No way! His senses can't be _that_ sharp! Do you think he can hear his heartbeat already?"

Peter's eyes widened and his thoughts fired off like a shot in to a torrential race to reach the forefront of his mind. One after the other, questions ran over each other and Peter desperately struggled to grasp one in its entirety. What was happening? How long had Mr. Stark known about this? Why had Peter not noticed anything before? But then all thoughts went quiet as Peter realized… yesterday Ms. Potts had brought Mr. Stark with her to a board meeting. They had left Peter alone at the apartment, just for a couple hours. Mr. Stark had looked way too nervous for it to actually have been a board meeting.

"Who knows," Mr. Stark sighed. "All I got to work with is the vague description of 'dialed to eleven' senses – the kid's words, not mine. It's not like I've ever put his spidey-ness under the microscope to quantified how much more heightened his senses are than an average person's."

"Of course not. That would be unethical, creepy, and illegal."

Last week, Ms. Potts had been sick with food poisoning… or so she had told Peter. If he were less self-absorbed with his own life, he would've noticed that her bout of 'food poisoning' lasted longer than it should've.

"Spot on, Miss Potts. Finally, something we agree on," Mr. Stark's voice took on a more familiar tone, and Peter sensed him closing in on a direct point. "Now maybe we can agree on dinner this Saturday for the three of us? Or is pregnancy not a subject that people normally talk about over dinner? That's probably too formal, huh? I mean, we'll order take-out, so no one has to cook. Dinner at home, that'll help to make it less serious, right? I don't wanna make him feel weird…"

Mr. Stark was worried about _him_ and how _he_ would take the news? Despite the warmth in Peter's chest, he couldn't help the confused frown forming on his face. What Peter thought of Ms. Potts' pregnancy was inconsequential to their lives as a couple. So why…?

"I just…" Ms. Potts began and then faltered. Her uncertainty set off warning bells in Peter's mind since he had never heard her anything less than absolutely confident. "I don't want to shake up Peter's life even more than it already is. He looks so lost all the time."

Peter was sinking while standing perfectly still. Steam was clinging to his skin, making it damp, and its accumulation in to small beads was the only thing that he could feel. The mirror across from him was filled with fog, hiding his expression from himself.

"I know," Mr. Stark said so quietly that Peter barely heard him. The tired weight of his voice dragged it down to almost inaudible depths. "This is horrible timing, but Morgan's running on his own schedule. It's not like we can tell him to wait. We'll make this work, I promise."

Peter shut the door and it made a soft but resounding snap. He flinched from the sound, having forgotten to close it quietly. He hoped that Mr. Stark and Ms. Potts didn't hear it, or if they did, that they didn't pay it any mind. With both hands, Peter scrubbed the heels of his palms in to his eyes. Little stars burst behind his eye lids, and the sting of the pressure helped to clear his mind.

Mr. Stark worried about Peter a lot. His worry wasn't what caused Peter to feel like he was reeling. It was Ms. Potts' worry that felt like a wake-up call. Ms. Potts was the _boss._ She talked the talk and walked the walk of one. That wasn't to say that she was insensitive, but she didn't shy away from tough decision or breaking news when it had to be done. But she was wary of Peter and how her pregnancy would affect him… and that stung worse than Peter could've imagined. Had he really been so sullen and unpleasant lately that she and Mr. Stark didn't think he would be happy for them?

Was Peter really that broken? he had survived space and returned to the safety of his planet only to find his life fractured in to pieces. Since then, it was like Peter was of two minds; the one that struggled to wade through lethargy everyday inside of his numb body, and the one that observed himself from outside. The one outside knew he was being unnecessarily difficult and that he was hurting Mr. Stark and Ms. Potts. The one inside lacked the ability to change despite knowing that he should. But this… this was a splash of icy water; cold, unexpected, but reviving.

Peter didn't want Mr. Stark and Ms. Potts walking on egg shells around him. It made his stomach hurt to realize the extent of their tip-toeing around his feelings. They should be comfortable in their own home. They should feel free to enjoy their lives and celebrate their baby without fearing whether or not their charge could handle it.

They were both worried for him, but they shouldn't be. Peter was a temporary fixture in their lives. Ms. Potts was eight weeks pregnant. He did some quick math in his head and estimated that she would be due in late January. His time with Mr. Stark and Ms. Potts would overlap in to their son's time for six months and then Peter would be eighteen and an adult. Living on his own… possibly in university if he could scrounge up the money. His opinion about their major life decisions didn't matter, so why was Mr. Stark constantly seeking it?

" _What do you think, Pete? Should we get the apartment on East 79_ _th_ _or the one on Madison?"_

" _I don't know…"_

" _East 79_ _th_ _is a little closer to your school, so there's that."_

" _Mhmm."_

" _I mean, we don't have to get a place in the Upper East Side at all. We can move to Queens if you want-"_

" _No. I don't want to live there again. Anywhere else."_

Why had Mr. Stark bothered to sit Peter down and scroll through pictures of classy apartments? Swanky penthouses, that probably cost more than all of May and Ben's rent payments combined, was befitting of CEOs and Billionaires, but not Peter. Not to mention that no matter where Mr. Stark decided to live, it would only be Peter's home for a little while. A year at most. It would be Morgan's home for much longer. It was evident that Mr. Stark wanted to move out of this temporary settlement in the hotel and have a _real_ home. To settle down with his wife and raise his family…

Oh. So that's what he had meant. The wording of his public statement had been deliberate after all. A pang struck Peter's stomach and he tried not to dwell on its sudden appearance. Nor the shortness of breath that it was causing. All at once, Peter realized that his shower was starting to run a bit too long, and Mr. Stark would grow suspicious soon. He stumbled on his pant legs in his haste to get out of them, but caught himself before he could fall. The water was very warm, so maybe it had only felt like a lot of time had passed. Regardless, Peter hurriedly scrubbed shampoo in to his hair as he proceeded to take his quickest shower ever. Despite his urgent haste, his mind started to wander again.

The upcoming year might be an uncomfortable one. Peter would be crashing Mr. Stark's and Ms. Potts' newlywed and new parent life, but that couldn't be helped. They had chosen to take him in and surely, Ms. Potts at least, would have known that she was pregnant before making that decision. Peter let that knowledge reassured him as he willed the wisps of panic to dissipate. Things were changing… but it wasn't bad. Soon Mr. Stark, Ms. Potts, and their son would be 'the Starks'. A different name, but the same people. They were the only ones left who knew Peter and Spider-Man, and understood both. They weren't going anywhere. Even after Peter left and they really began their lives together, they would be nearby, living somewhere in the Upper East Side. And Peter… he would come by every now and then. Check in on things. Maybe, if Mr. Stark wasn't too busy, they could even do some lab work again. The thought of working side by side again made Peter smile, even as shampoo fell in to his eyes.

Everything would be alright.

* * *

When Saturday arrived, Ms. Potts returned from the office with take-out, and a lot of it. So much, in fact, that Peter was surprised that she managed to carry it all on her own. He didn't need to see the logo on the plastic bags to know that it was Thai food. He'd know that smell anywhere. And it wasn't just any Thai food, but Thai food from his favorite Thai place. Its delicious scent washed over the kitchen, and made his stomach start to rumble. It was an instantaneous cause and effect. He hadn't even realized that he was hungry until the smell of pun sip neung hit his nose. Eagerly, Peter grabbed the plates from the cupboard and ignored Mr. Stark's teasing smirk in response to his stomach growls.

"Hungry?"

"Always, Mr. Stark. Is that a serious question?"

Dinner was tense, but not in a bad way. Mr. Stark and Ms. Potts exchange secretive glances while they ate and Peter pretended to not notice. He kept his head down and didn't even bother to ask why Ms. Potts had gotten herself a separate meal from a different restaurant. She picked nervously at her kale and grilled chicken while Peter devoured his greasy plate of happiness. Savoring the flavor, he waited. It's not every day that Thai take-out was the harbinger of life altering news.

Turns out, Mr. Stark had absolutely no chill about the situation. Oh, he tried to be cool. Peter could tell how he was trying to be his usual nonchalant, fazed by nothing, self. But his words came out a bit too rushed. The gaps between sentences were too short, his beats between jokes were off. At times, it sounded like he had prepared a speech, other times Peter was certain that he was just winging it. Honestly, how Mr. Stark had managed to keep this a secret for so long was a mystery. Peter was kind of disappointed with himself that he hadn't noticed how off his mentor had been lately. Ms. Potts let Mr. Stark talk, her expression growing increasingly pitying as his rambling became more and more chaotic.

"So, I built Dum-E and U, and back in those days, they were enough y'know? But things change and people change, sometimes slowly, sometimes really quick-"

It was getting hard for Peter not to cringe. On a scale of one to ten, he wondered how pissed Ms. Potts was that Mr. Stark was equating her baby to a machine. Something in her expression shifted, but she didn't look mad, so that was something.

"What Tony means is that I'm pregnant," She interjected calmly. Rather than looking annoyed at being interrupted Mr. Stark seemed relieved that she had put him out of his misery. Their eyes met across the table briefly and Peter could practically feel the gratitude emanating from Mr. Stark's being. Both of them turned their focus back to Peter and he knew… this was it. A moment that he might've ruined with his awkwardness if he hadn't had a few days to turn it over in his head.

"Oh." Peter looked between their anxious faces, pushing aside his guilt for being the cause of it, and dropped his eyes to Ms. Potts' sadness salad. "So, you're gonna have kale all day every day?"

Ms. Potts blinked in surprise before regaining her smooth composure and smiled tentatively.

"Among other healthy foods, yes. You should try it sometime."

Peter shook his head emphatically and skewered some noodles with his fork.

"No, I'm good over here with my carbs and grease."

Maybe he was taking it too well and playing it a little too cool. Mr. Stark's eyes narrowed as he rested his chin in the palm of his hand. Their eyes locked for a second, and Peter didn't dare look away. He was pinned down and his heart pounded faster, but then Mr. Stark rolled his eyes and smiled. Peter smiled then too, out of earnest relief. He gave his congratulations. The formal sentiment rolled off his tongue in a stilted manner. He offered it because it was expected of him, not because it was a very Peter-like thing to say. Mr. Stark smirked at his awkwardness but Ms. Potts thanked him graciously. Unlike himself and Mr. Stark she knew how to play the game.

Later that night, they sat together in front of the tv. Mr. Stark had insisted on regular Saturday night time together, and Ms. Potts had whole-heartedly agreed. It was her night to pick the show, and that's how Peter found himself stuffed full of Thai food and watching a cake baking competition. The excitement of the day was catching up to him and his eyes felt heavy. Or maybe it was just too many sleepless nights making their presence known. The last thing he saw was a contestant trying and failing to fix her gross-looking fondant that was draped over her cake in a bubbly, wrinkled mess.

"Pete?" Peter barely had the energy to acknowledge Mr. Stark. He hoped he would just give up. "Hey, kid?" No such luck. "You tapping out?"

"No…" Peter murmured. "M'awake. Just resting my eyes."

"Routine inspection? Checking the old peepers for light leaks?"

Oh, that was awful. All Mr. Stark needed to do now was laugh at his own lame joke and the dad transformation would be complete. Well, that and the baby needed to be born. That too.

"That's a quality dad joke," Peter muttered. "Add it to the stockpile."

Mr. Stark _did_ laugh then, but to his credit he was laughing at Peter's reaction not his joke. He'd give him a pass on that. Behind closed eyes, Peter could see a preview of Morgan Stark's life. A life where the poor boy wouldn't be able to sleep on the couch, in the car, or anywhere else out in the open without being subjected to Mr. Stark's stupid 'light leaks' joke. Peter wasn't sure why he felt a small sense of accomplishment at ensuring that this minor act of harassment would eventually come to pass. It probably shouldn't have felt so heart-warming, but when Peter finally did drop off in to sleep, a ghost of a smile lingered on his face.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not sure if anyone is wondering or cares, but my rationale for the difference between Ms. Potts and Miss Potts is that Tony calls Pepper 'Miss' because he met her when she was still young enough to be called that. For Peter, Pepper has always been significantly older and a respected figure of authority, thus he calls her 'Ms.'. Jumping between the two voices make's Pepper's name a bit inconsistent, but it is intentional. 
> 
> In other news, from now on, updates will be weekly on Fridays.


	9. Get on Board

On the last day of June, Peter spent less than an hour packing up his belongings. He had two suitcases; Ben's old one and a new one that Ms. Potts and Mr. Stark had bought him. Though there was plenty of room still left in Ben's case, he felt the need to separate his things accordingly. His old stuff in Ben's case and new things, all bought for him within the past month, in the new case. They sat side by side next to his bedroom door. Shabby and frayed pressed up next to sleek and pristine.

That night Peter slept in his sparsely furnished hotel room and surrounded by non-offensive, neutral coloured decor. The duvet had always been too heavy and Peter was glad to be leaving it behind. In fact, he was glad to be leaving all of it behind. His guest status included.

On July first, Mr. Stark and Ms. Potts stood with Peter in their new home. The three of them stood close together in a little cluster in the large, open space. Mr. Stark had gone ahead and chosen the penthouse on 79th street. The one closer to Peter's school. Just over the bridge and a twenty-minute drive away, as Mr. Stark had told him. If they were living in different times, in a different life, Peter might've been annoyed by the reminder of his guardians' close proximity. The sound of helicopter engines rumbling, poised and ready for takeoff, would've driven him crazy. But now… this didn't feel like hovering. This was reassurance.

The promise of stability. It soothed something raw in Peter, the intensity of which he hadn't fully felt until it was relieved. He had a _home_ , and more importantly, people to come back to. Only weeks ago, he hadn't been sure if he would ever have that again.

The kitchen and living room were connected without walls to stifle their space. High ceilings towered above and lent the penthouse an air of grandeur. On both ends, hallways led to more rooms, out of sight and in need of exploring. Without furniture, the sprawling space seemed even larger.

Such an empty space, bereft of anything to absorb sound waves, begged for something to break the silence. Something that would create a nice crisp echo. The temptation was presented and Peter's palms itched. A voice in his head, the one that urged him to stay quiet and polite lest he offend his guardians, cautioned him not to clap. A week ago, Peter would've listened and obeyed, without a doubt.

But things had changed. Just as Mr. Stark had said they would.

_Crack!_

Mr. Stark and Ms. Potts jumped. They moved in unison, both flinching and then looking at Peter, the culprit whose palms were still pressed together. Mr. Stark's eyes took on _the look_. The one that Peter had no name for, but which seemed to be reserved for him whenever he was being a little too much. The _'can you not, right now?'_ look. It had been a while since Peter had seen it, or had squirmed under it to be more precise. There was a softer edge that accompanied it now, which took away some of Mr. Stark's exasperated severity.

"Sorry," Peter said while not really feeling sorry at all. "I had to do it. It won't echo like this when the furniture and stuff get here." His hand made a sweeping gesture to illustrate expanse of the rooms. Mr. Stark rolled his eyes and reached over to flick Peter on his temple. Ms. Potts shook her head, a fond smile playing at her lips, and peeled away from the little group to talk to the movers standing just outside the front door. Mr. Stark clapped Peter on the shoulder and steered him towards one of the hallways.

"It doesn't look like much, but we'll dress the place up and make it homey." Peter's eyes widened and he had to hold in a disbelieving laugh. If Mr. Stark considered this place to be 'not much', what did he consider lavish? He had never set foot in any of Mr. Stark's homes, so he honestly could only guess. It was too bad that terrorists blew up his mansion in Malibu. That place must've been the epicenter of opulence. "I bought the floor below us too. It's gonna be the new lab." On reflex, Peter cast his eyes down to the hardwood floor that they were walking over, and then he looked up and quirked a brow at Mr. Stark.

"Really? You didn't buy the whole building? I'm shocked."

"Don't be a smart-ass, kid. It's not a good look on you." Mr. Stark chastised, but the hint of a smirk ruined the effect. "I thought it would be a dick move to kick everyone out of the building just 'cause I want more elbow room."

Peter blinked, surprised by Mr. Stark's consideration. He wasn't really known for his sensitivity and mindfulness, and yet he had thought of the other tenants and their attachment to their homes. Peter had assumed when Mr. Stark had been apartment hunting, that he would have offered to buy everyone out of the building for the sake of retaining his privacy. Well, that and Peter knew Mr. Stark well enough to know that he wasn't big on sharing. Peter imagined that he would've offered each tenant a buyout at double or triple the value of their homes, and most would jump at the offer. For them, it would've been a great offer and the sum of money would probably be more than a ten-year salary, for Mr. Stark it would've barely tapped the surface of his wealth. But then again… these were different times. Security these days couldn't be bought. Not really. Forces beyond anyone's control could rip away stability and no amount of money could buy it back. The ones who were lucky enough to survive and hold on to their place in the world might not be so keen to trade it all for a few extra bucks. Perhaps Mr. Stark bore that in mind when he decided to only buy the top two floors.

Ahead, Peter saw a closed door painted white and adorned with a gold door handle. For the briefest of moments, he imagined it open and off kilter. The hinges bent unnaturally as it had been forced too far open. The handle suspending the door in the drywall, the force of his rage having punctured it cleanly through. Through the open doorway lay the hallway leading away from his trashed apartment. His home that had been picked apart and looted. Eleven years of living snatched out from under him before he was even aware that it was in danger.

Peter's step only faltered for a second, but that was enough for Mr. Stark to tense.

"You okay?"

The door was as it was before; closed, perfectly painted, and completely innocuous. Mr. Stark's gaze was all at once concerned and searching.

_Get it together. Don't ruin this._

Peter plastered a shaky grin on his face. Forced or genuine, he wasn't sure which was shining through. Sometimes, he himself couldn't tell the difference. These days, it seemed as though he was straddling the line between those two opposites. Some days he lived and breathed his life under Mr. Stark's roof with ease. Other days he merely inhabited the space. Some days, Peter had no idea where he stood, and those were the worst of all.

"Yeah, I'm fine." Peter was relieved to hear his own voice sound so steady. Perhaps today he could genuinely belong instead of just pretending like he did. The concern in Mr. Stark's eyes was mitigated, though it didn't entirely disappeared. He must've felt it best to move on because he flashed Peter a smile in response.

"Dum-E and U will be shipped out here soon. We'll have ourselves a nice little homecoming when they arrive." They continued down the hall, approaching the door at the end of it.

"Of course, gotta have the whole family together," Peter teased, alluding to his recent discovery that Mr. Stark apparently considered his early robots to be akin to his first children. He expected him to scowl or to throw back some light hearted snarking, but he didn't rise to the bait. Instead his shoulders rose in a casual shrug as they stopped outside the door.

"I like to have all my people under the same roof. Even the absolutely useless ones that won't follow simple instructions." That last bit came out light, but the look that he gave Peter was decidedly poignant. He squeezed Peter's shoulder and then let go, making his implication clear.

Well, that was uncalled for. Dum-E was a menace in the lab, having broken more smoothie blenders than Peter would ever know. And sure, Peter may have accidentally set popcorn on fire last week. Yeah, okay, there _were_ instructions on the bag, but the microwave shouldn't have a 'popcorn' button unless the manufacturers intended for it to actually pop the corn. Not combust it. That was false advertising, totally not Peter's fault.

"We're still talking about Dum-E, right?" Peter asked leadingly. Mr. Stark smirked and grabbed the doorknob.

"Sure."

He opened it, and a sudden flood of light struck Peter's eyes from tall windows. The harsh transition from the semi-dark hall to the bright room made his eyes water.

"And _I'm_ the smart-ass?" he muttered, blinking hard and rubbing the tears from his lash line with his thumb. He followed Mr. Stark in to the room and stopped in his tracks when Mr. Stark whirled around to look at him.

"You know what? Just for that comment, you don't get this kick ass room with a sweet view."

Only then did Peter's eyes clear enough to see the view before him. It was _awesome_. Even with nothing in it, it was still way more impressive than any room Peter had ever had. Outside, windows showcased a variety of buildings; little pockets of old heritage buildings coexisted next to sleek, reflective skyscrapers. Peter knew these sights. He had swung through them as Spider-Man nearly every day, but somehow from here it managed to be special again. Like he was a tourist instead of a local.

"Okay, I'm sorry." Peter grinned like the smart-ass that he was and held up his hands placatingly. He made himself look as contrite as possible – a difficult feat when he couldn't wipe his smile off- and he faced his guardian's feigned ire.

"No, no, my mind's made up." Mr. Stark waved a hand dismissively, but the spark in his eye gave him away. "It's a cardboard box under the stairs for you, Underoos."

"What? Oh, c'mon-"

"Don't worry, I'll drop off three square meals a day." Mr. Stark promised, and Peter raised an eyebrow at his devotion to the bit. "Plus, you can eat any stray mice you find sneaking around. And crumbs off the floor, those are totally up for grabs. That should be enough to sustain a growing spidey-boy's metabolism, right?"

Damn, Mr. Stark was _really_ laying it on thick. In the midst of wondering if he was serious about the mouse thing – this was New York after all. Rodents were unavoidable, even in the posh neighbourhoods in the Upper East Side - Peter noted that Mr. Stark was dipping in to his arsenal of spider nicknames again. Those had become rare and Peter suspected that he was avoiding the whole Spider-Man thing all together. Now was probably not the right time to press the issue, so instead he let it go.

_Play along._

It was getting easier these days.

"I said I was _sorry,_ jeez!"

Peter rallied back. The ball was in Mr. Stark's court. He eyed Peter critically, though there was no real hostility behind it. It was all for show. All to conceal how happy he was to see Peter playing at all. Engaging in the bit instead of being… well… himself, but lesser than before. Muted. Cautious.

"You're lucky I'm in a forgiving mood." Mr. Stark walked to the window, which was tall and had a wide ledge like a built-in bench. "We'll be short a mouser around here, but that's okay. We'll get by." He sat down and scooted to one side of the ledge, leaving an empty space large enough for someone else to sit. The invitation was clear.

' _I'm gonna sit here, so you move your leg.'_

A different apartment with a different bedroom flashed before Peter's eyes. A different Peter too, one who couldn't string together a sentence without stuttering in front of his… not even a mentor back then. At the time, nobody to him except a wealthy benefactor and heroic icon admired from afar. But now, someone much more.

How things could change in two short years. How much more they could change in an instant… in the snap of fingers.

_Don't think about that. Play along._

Peter smoothed out his expression before Mr. Stark had a chance to ask about it. He sat down in the spot next to Mr. Stark and stretched his legs out in front of him. Relaxed and casual, on the outside at least.

"So, you're saying we should get a cat?" Peter asked innocently and turned to look at the man next to him.

"No, the building doesn't allow pets." Peter thought that sounded like code for _'I don't want a cat'_. He was pretty sure if there was a 'no pets' rule, that would only pertain to renters, not people who owned their apartment. Mr. Stark's expression adopted a hint of distaste as he added: "Plus, cats are a little too conventional, don't'cha think?"

So cats weren't off the table as long as they were unorthodox? Interesting. Peter's mind conjured up an image of a different Mr. Stark, one that had transformed in to a shameless celebrity peacock. The kind that owned white Bengal tigers as pets just because he could. Like Mike Tyson. The two of them could start up a pet walking service for fellow celebrities with ridiculous and exotic pets. The thought had him grinning like an idiot again.

"So, you're saying we should get a tiger? Can't get much more unconventional than that." He tried to deliver that question as innocently as the first, but it was hard. There were definitely cracks in his façade and Mr. Stark's deadpan expression was making it difficult to keep it together.

"I'm not saying that, _you're_ saying that. And also, no. A thousand times, no."

Peter nodded seriously and eyed the space around them.

"Yeah, I guess a tiger would be too big. Even for this place. The poor guy would suffer." He let his head fall back and felt the cool pane of glass against it. "What about an ocelot? They're like the size of a Maine Coon." They probably weren't, but that wasn't the point. The point was to play the game and get under Mr. Stark's skin. His guardian's exasperated _'I can't even'_ sigh, further proved that Peter was winning.

"I can't believe this needs to be said out loud, but nothing that's gonna disembowel me in my sleep."

"An unconventional mouser that won't try to disembowel you?" Peter asked as he folded one of his legs up to his chest. He rested his chin on his knee and felt the slight pressure clack his teeth together. "I think you're asking too much, Mr. Stark. I mean, even regular house cats would kill you if they could. They just know that they can't do it, so they don't even try."

"It doesn't matter. The building won't allow any sort of pet, vicious killers or otherwise."

A beat of silence as the matter was closed. But then…

"So, we're gonna live with mice?"

A sharp look with no bite was shot at Peter. He tilted his face down to smother his smile into his knee.

"I'm demoting you back to the box."

Peter's laugh was muffled by the fabric of his jeans. A second later, a hesitant hand ruffled his hair. It was strange and familiar all at once. Like those days in the lab when jokes and sarcastic quips were tossed around with ease. But also, it was something new. Not for the first time, he felt the presence of something familial. Since returning to Earth, it had settled in the silences and in the spaces between words. Like always, it ignited a spark of panic, because that familial feeling was, of course, imagined. It was his own desperation and fear trying to make something out of nothing. Taking kindness and trying to stretch it into something more. It was important to be aware of that impulse, even though he couldn't seem to make it stop. But for some reason… he just couldn't bring himself to care this time.

Real.

Imagined.

A sense of peace enveloped him and extinguished the panic before it had a chance to grow. Because maybe… this could be okay. Good even. Playing along was so much easier than resisting. Maybe happiness, like everything else, just needed to be practiced in order to be comfortable.

Peter knew for certain that his smile, still hidden by his knee, was genuine. For a moment, he marveled at how that too was getting easier.

It just took practice.

And time.

* * *

Three days later, it was the fourth of July. An annual national holiday since 1777, and Captain Rogers' birthday since 1918. Peter remembered learning about that ironic coincidence back in 2012, when Captain Rogers had resurfaced, aliens had invaded, and the world had been irrevocably shaken. Fourth of July 2018… that was his centennial birthday. The big one-oh-oh. He remembered seeing Captain America in Germany. They had fought and Peter had multitasked fighting and lowkey geeking out over one of his greatest heroes. He remembered the same man, haggard and worn, who had haunted the compound in the week that the they had coexisted there. The difference was staggering, and Peter wondered who he must have lost to the snap. Someone, now vanished, had the power to break him when a world war, many more battles, and temporal displacement couldn't. Love and compassion; the sharp edge of the human experience could cut deep wounds. Peter could understand that. So could many others. Everyone had lost someone.

Captain Rogers undoubtedly wouldn't be celebrating his milestone birthday, just like the rest of America wouldn't celebrate Independence Day. An unimaginable devastation had gripped the world, all worlds everywhere, and as a result perspective had been gained. What did celebrating his country's independence matter in light of everything that had happened? Who cared about something so trivial? Moreover, who could celebrate, and truly enjoy themselves, without feeling the hollow absence by their side? The chilling emptiness where someone should be standing, but never would again. Peter knew from experience, in the years to come, that void would become less threatening though it's significance would never diminish. It would always remain, but it would hurt less to acknowledge it.

To put it simply, it was too soon for celebrations and parties. That was why Peter was so surprised when he heard an explosion from somewhere outside. Not the dangerous sort of explosion, like the kind that had rang in Peter's ears during battle… and for some time after. No, this sound was unique and unmistakable.

Fireworks.

Peter was certain that was what it was. Perched on his bed – bought for him the day that they moved in and completed with a duvet that _didn't_ feel like it was trying to smother and roast him – the first bang cracked through the night air.

_Bang!_

Forgetting his phone in the folds of his duvet, Peter sprung to his feet. Outside his room, he heard the low voices on the tv suddenly muted.

_Bang!_

In between ringing explosions, Peter could hear his own hurried footsteps pad across his carpeted bedroom and in to the hallway. The living room came in to view and Peter saw Ms. Potts and Mr. Stark standing at the tall windows that overlooked a couple of blocks of buildings and the East River beyond them.

_Bang!_

Beyond the pane of glass, a smattering of red, white, and blue exploded in the distance. Tiny specks of brilliant colour hung in the air, glowing for a second, before falling through their arc and burning out.

"Someone's setting off fireworks?" Ms. Potts muttered as Peter reached her side. He glanced over and saw her disbelieving expression just as another _bang_ rang across the distance. Peter understood completely without her having to verbalize it. On the surface, fourth of July fireworks were to be expected, but the context for this was all wrong. "Whoever decided to do this is very brave. The public backlash is going to be a nightmare."

Peter couldn't help but smile at that. People are who they are he supposed. It would seem that decades of maintaining Stark Industries had caused Ms. Potts' default mode to be to view everything through a PR lens. A small part of her was always concerned about the repercussions of bad decisions, even when the company wasn't her own. But she was right. Already, Peter could imagine the outrage that was likely breaking across various social media platforms, declaring it as inappropriate and insulting. Peter had to admit, the stunt was bold.

"I guess there's something to be said for tradition." Mr. Stark said lightly. Another Bang. All blue this time. The embers shot out farther and created a larger sphere. From where Peter stood, it was about the size of a grape. At the river side it would've been enormous. "Think we should head down there and check it out?"

"No," Ms. Potts said. "It looks like there's only one barge on the water. They'll probably have run out of fireworks by the time we get there."

She was mostly right, but it was a boat not a barge. Peter could barely make out it out, but with squinted eyes, he could see the vague shape of a sailboat. The fireworks were all contained to that one area, like some bizarre sparkling geyser, or a sinking ship sending off oddly patriotic distress flares. Well, that seemed dangerous. It didn't seem likely that a company would've sent it out. It was far too small for anyone to attach their name to it with pride. The boat must've been privately owned. For some reason, the idea of one guy – or more likely a small crew – setting off alone on the water to light some fireworks because tradition demanded it, hit him in a way he hadn't expected. His heart felt light, though at the same time it ached.

He was five, sitting on Ben's shoulders and watching a dazzling spectacle for the first time. Eight, and begging Ben for money to buy one of the big glow sticks that a vendor was selling. Thirteen, and watching some little kids lightsaber battle with the glow sticks before the fireworks started up. Secretly, he had wanted one too, but his newly realized teenaged dignity and no Ned around to enable him, prevented him from buying one and schooling the young Padawans in the ways of the Jedi Knight. He and Ned were self-proclaimed, of course, but when you clocked as many hours as they had, the title was earned.

"We used to go see the fireworks every year, me and Ben. And May too if she could get the night off from work." Peter wasn't sure what made him say that out loud, and he was keenly aware that was the first time he had brought his aunt and uncle up in casual conversation. A second of stunned silence followed, just long enough for his heart to feel weighted.

"That sounds like it must've been a lot of fun."

Instantly, the weight was lifted at Ms. Potts' remark. He breathed out, as subtly as he could, a breath he had been holding. His hands shook, so he buried them in pockets of his hoodie.

"It was."

They all remained facing forward, watching the fireworks, which were launched with larger time gaps between each one. Their stock must be getting low. Mr. Stark was the first to turn his attention away. Peter felt his gaze on him but he couldn't turn to meet it.

"Why don't we go next year?" Mr. Stark rushed out. There was an urgency to his excitement that made Peter's stomach twist. "It'll be great!"

Peter knew he should say something. He knew he should respond in kind with _'Yeah, let's do it!'_. He should meet his eye at the very least, but he couldn't do it. He imagined standing at the river side, fireworks in full swing, but May and Ben were cardboard cut outs. Fragile figures that could be knocked over with a gust of strong wind and replaced by anyone who cared enough. Of course, he couldn't say that out loud. Not without being disrespectful and cruel and all the things that Peter never wanted to be. But all the same, standing with a crowd by the river, or on the bridge, where ever they could find a place, and watching the Independence Day fireworks, that had been their thing. Ben, May, and Peter's. That period of time had begun and ended, and was now untouchable. Just like all of his other fond memories. Replicating that time for the sake of recapturing something that didn't exist anymore was just wrong.

_Say something._

He couldn't. He was at an impasse. Trapped between loyalty for his old family and acceptance of his new… guardians. People who had nothing but the best of intentions for him. How could he say 'no' when he owed everything to Mr. Stark? Fortunately, Ms. Potts came to his rescue, and Peter didn't have to say anything.

"You know, I grew up in a rural town," Peter could see in his peripheral vision that she was looking at him now. "So, we had bonfires instead of fireworks."

Pepper Potts; Vanquisher of awkward moments. The way that she made tension disappear was a gift that neither he nor Mr. Stark possessed. She always knew what to say and when was the best moment to say it. Truly she was the unsung hero. A tiny pinch of guilt gnawed at Peter's insides. Honestly, he had been living with Ms. Potts for over a month. How did he not know that about her? He had always assumed that she was born and raised in the city, like he and Mr. Stark were. Peter imagined that it must've been nice, growing up somewhere less crowded and much quieter. It must be so different from anything he knew. He was on the verge of asking her more about it. A question was on the tip of his tongue when suddenly lightning struck him.

"Let's do both!" he said, perhaps a little louder than he had intended. He turned to look at the two of them, and they both seemed shocked by his excitement. Or maybe they were just startled by his near shouting. He fought to keep his tone down as he added: "We can see the fireworks from the roof, and we'll be far enough away that the sound won't disturb Morgan. Oh wait, babies go to be super early. Even better, we'll already be home. Putting him to bed won't be a hassle." Mr. Stark's stunned expression quickly morphed in to one of cautious elation. That expression was familiar, though he had never seen it on Mr. Stark. Rather he had felt it himself whenever an experiment turned out better than he hoped, but there was still time for it to go south. Seeing it on Mr. Stark, knowing how hard he had been working to make Peter feel at home, it made his heart clench. He tried not to show it, and pressed on. "Do you think the building would let us have a bonfire up there since we own the two floors below it?" A tiny frown appeared on Ms. Potts' face, and Peter braced himself for the inevitable rejection.

"No, that's not how that works," Ms. Potts replied frankly, ever the realist. "Also, that seems like a pretty serious fire hazard if it's not properly contained-"

"So, we'll contain it." Mr. Stark interrupted and Ms. Potts shot him an annoyed look. "I'll talk to them. See what I can't swing." He promised, his elation taking on a defiant edge under Ms. Potts' annoyance. Peter predicted that later tonight decades old battle would recommence. Mr. Stark wanted something unreasonable and Ms. Potts had to be the practical one and say 'no'. Between feelings guilt and exasperation for unintentionally causing another argument, Peter wondered how many times they had had that fight. At this point, did they feel like they were jumping through hoops?

It couldn't be helped, Peter decided. Not really. People are who they are, and even without Peter's suggestion they would've inevitably found something to argue over before breakfast. It's just who they were together. For the first time, Peter made a conscious decision to not worry about it. He turned his attention back to the lone boat on the river.

Bonfire and fireworks. A new tradition in the presence of an old one. Peter liked the idea. Seeing the fireworks, being present but distant from them just as he was now, it eased something in him. Something that Peter had been resisting since Mr. Stark had first told him that May was gone. He didn't have to choose one life or another. Richard and Mary's boy. May and Ben's boy. Mr. Stark and Ms. Potts' boy. Tragedy shaped him each time in to slightly different version of himself, but ultimately, he was the same.

It was too soon to enjoy fireworks at the river side. Without his family it was too painful. But from the roof top, from afar and in good company, it could be good.

Present but distant. Peter had a feeling that would be the way of things from now on. Not just for him, but for everyone. Acknowledgement of a life, now gone, but moving forward. It's all anyone could do. It was all everyone _had_ to do. The alternative was to live in misery forever.

In his mind's eye, Peter saw himself standing alone on the river side. He watched the lone boat shoot off fireworks for an audience of silently indifferent dead and outraged living. And for Peter too, he supposed, though he felt no anger or resentment for the crew who refused to drop the torch. Just a profound sense of loss for his aunt, who came when she could, and his uncle, who had introduced him to it all. And the missing Padawans, whose fighting stance Peter wouldn't be able to silently judge and critique.

And that… that's no way to live.

* * *

A week had passed since the fourth of July, and Peter kept his ear to the ground. He listened and he read whatever he could to get a feel of the terrain. The world and his neighbourhood. Even though he couldn't do anything, being benched and all, he needed to know what the situation was like out there. Mr. Stark had said that he would give his suit back when the state of his neighbourhood wasn't so dangerous. When all the escaped convicts were rounded up again. He ignored the voice in him that wanted to whine that Spider-Man was _made_ for fighting criminals. Whining was counterproductive and plus… Peter had something to prove. He wanted Mr. Stark to see that he did have integrity, so he forced himself to be patient and _wait_. Wait for the mess that Mr. Stark wanted him to be nowhere near to be cleaned up.

And then it was. For the most part anyway. Some were still at large, but according to local news bulletins the majority had been reincarcerated. A few days passed and Mr. Stark said nothing. That was nothing to worry about. He and Ms. Potts were getting married within a week. It wasn't going to be a big event, just a small ceremony at city hall with fewer guests than Peter had fingers on one hand. But still, he was preoccupied. That didn't mean that he was withholding Peter's suit. Peter reassured himself, multiple times daily, that Mr. Stark would walk in to Peter's room, suit in hand, and give him his permission to go. Having his mentor's faith in him restored and having the ability to help people again… the thought was intensely satisfying. It would all be worth it. Peter just had to hold on a little longer.

But a day turned into the next. And then the next…

What he didn't expect was for Ms. Potts to be the one standing in his doorway. But there she was, leaning against the frame, his suit folded neatly and pressed securely against her body by her arm. The sight of his colours, red and blue, cast in webs, made his heart leap in to his throat.

"Mr. Stark's gonna let me patrol?" Peter asked. He was too excited to be embarrassed by his voice, which had skyrocketed up an octave. Ms. Potts didn't smirk like Mr. Stark would've. Instead she walked to his bed and sat on the edge, laying the suit between them like an offering.

"He doesn't know I'm letting you go."

"Oh." Peter realized that Mr. Stark wasn't in the apartment at that moment. He tried to remember where he said he was going but couldn't quite remember. Oh, Ms. Potts had asked him to take care of something at Stark Industries. That seemed… suspiciously well timed. Did she make up an errand just to get Peter alone? The evidence would suggest that, but it was hard for Peter to believe. He didn't know that she had it in her to be so sneaky. Being roped in to the situation made him feel uneasy, like he was doing something that he shouldn't.

"Consider tonight a trial run," Ms. Potts said. "Make it back here before dinner, without any injuries, safe and sound, and I'm sure he'll warm up to the idea of you patrolling again."

Peter wasn't sure how he felt about that. On the one hand, sitting on the sidelines when the world needed help most was torture and he wanted more than anything to get back out there. On the other hand, superhero stuff was his and Mr. Stark's thing. It was the entire basis of their relationship, and the reason why Mr. Stark had sought him out in the first place. Sure, Ms. Potts was one of Peter's legal guardians – all of that had been hashed out in a court room not long after leaving the compound- but he had been waiting on Mr. Stark's permission not hers. Peter remembered how Mr. Stark had sounded that night when he and Ms. Potts had been discussing his future in hero work. Those brief words, delivered all torn up and tired, had left him guilt ridden for days. Peter had to _do better_ than he was, because the prospect of betraying Mr. Stark's trust again made him feel deeply ashamed… and apprehensive. How many times could he make the same mistake and still expect to be forgiven for it? Patience and understanding were admirable qualities, but they were finite just as all valuable things were. Peter didn't want to know what would happen when Mr. Stark's ran out. What the bottom of the barrel looked like.

And yet… there was his suit. Flexible armor with an AI to keep an eye on him and to snitch if things were getting too dicey. Wearable anonymity to protect himself and those closest to him. The rush of swinging – falling and catching himself in an entirely self-controlled balancing act of safety and danger- it called to him. He could hear the echo of wind rushing in his ears and his blood quickened at the memory. It had been so long since he had felt that particular high; adrenaline unmotivated by fight or flight. Just himself surrounded by hundreds of feet of empty air. Without meaning to reach out, one of his fingers traced the black web lines on red background.

"Won't he be mad that you're letting me go?" Peter asked keeping his eyes on the webbed pattern. _Yes, he will,_ he answered himself immediately. He hated that he was putting Ms. Potts in this position almost as much as he hated that he _knew_ that he was going to leave anyway, whether Mr. Stark liked it or not.

"You let me worry about that," She said firmly in her no nonsense tone, which Peter nodded numbly to.

Thin fingers touched under Peter's chin and lifted it up. _'Hey, I'm talking to you. Look at me,'_ May scolded in his ear. Eye contact had always been hard for Peter when he was troubled. Ms. Potts' fingers were softer than May's dry ones. Her job as a nurse had her constantly washing her hands while Ms. Potts' CEO hands mostly typed or held pens. Peter's gaze was physically lifted up and the eyes he met were simultaneously Ms. Potts' and May's. Not his mom's though. She hadn't lived long enough for Peter to remember them looking at him like that; concerned, but ringing with the silent command: _Pay attention_. Ms. Potts would be a mother soon too, he reminded himself. Not that Peter had forgotten that. Morgan's invisible fourth presence filled the room wherever the three of them were just as if he were already born. But the fact was brought to the forefront of his mind with sharp clarity. Trailing after it, the image of an older Mrs. Stark sitting just as they were now and looking at her own son with that universal 'mom face'. An eerie chill swept Peter and his finger halted its tracing. Ms. Potts eyes searched his expression and she retracted her fingers quickly from under his chin as if he'd burnt her. Whatever spell had been cast was broken and suddenly they were Ms. Potts and Peter again. Not Ms. Potts and her practice son.

"He cares about you a lot, you know," she said calmly. Her hands folded themselves in her lap, severing the connection between herself and her ward and making them two islands once more. Peter was left stumbling to catch up to what the hell they were talking about. Right. The suit. Mr. Stark. Patrolling. He arrived at that conclusion as Ms. Potts pressed on. "And he worries. What you two went through… well, it's made him a bit overprotective. It's understandable, of course, but this can't carry on." She fixed him with another _'pay attention'_ look, but this time the eyes that delivered it were more 'boss Ms. Potts' than 'mom Ms. Potts'. They both had the effect of making him sit up straight, but the former didn't feel like a gut punch like the latter did. "You'll need to show him that you can take care of yourself out there, otherwise I don't see how he'll ever let you go. There'll always be some reason to keep you from leaving."

Huh.

So, Mr. Stark had been lying after all? He really hadn't intended to give Peter his suit back? That was disappointing, but Peter tried to not let it show. He wasn't supposed to know about any of that after all. Surprisingly, he found the blow didn't really wound him. Maybe it was because his suit, the other half of his identity, was lying before him, and maybe now he could feel whole again. Or maybe it was because something wonderful, albeit obvious, was solidified in words by the person who knew Mr. Stark better than anyone.

Mr. Stark _cared_ about Peter.

That fact shouldn't have made Peter's heart soar like it did, because he already _knew_ that. This wasn't new information. Even during times of doubt, when Peter had worried whether his mentor would decide to keep him around, he had always known that he cared at least a little. The problem was that Peter didn't know where the limit of that compassion lay. It existed, of course. It was finite, just like his patience and understanding. He still didn't know where Mr. Stark's care for him capped off. At some point, he expected that he would learn where the ceiling was. But through their time living together he had found out that it was much higher than he had expected. After all, someone who didn't care wouldn't have invite him into his home to live with his newly formed family. Nor would he have made plans for the next fourth of July, or trouble himself to settle his home near Peter's school. A thousand acts and gestures, big and small, piled up and fortified an indisputable truth; Mr. Stark cared about him. Mr. Stark liked him a lot, clearly. And maybe even…

' _I love you, kid.'_

Nope.

Peter blinked hard, squashing the thought and smothering it in darkness. There it was. That was it. A glimpse of something that existed beyond the limit in a territory reserved for Morgan. He tried not to be jealous. It was ungrateful for Peter to want to stray there when he had already had sixteen years to feel its warmth when it had been given by his own family. To be loved like that, by those who made you, was unique. Once it was lost it could never be recreated by anyone else.

Peter had had that epiphany weeks ago, during one of his nights plagued with insomnia. Up until that point, he had understood that to lose May was to lose someone integral to his life and his being. But that night he had realized, suddenly and completely, that with her went the last of something irreplaceable.

That night had been rough, to say the least. As had been the night after it. That time on existed for Peter in a new understanding of his life. One where he was aware of the extent of what he had lost. But the funny thing was… each night that followed hurt a little less. This new state of being, it became easier and easier to embody. Maybe because there was no other alternative other than acceptance.

The truth was simple. Peter had had his time. It began with his parents and ended with May. Now it was Morgan's turn to feel what Peter had taken for granted throughout his childhood. Morgan wouldn't appreciate it either. Not until it was gone. The absence of something that had always been present wasn't truly felt until the warmth of it had vanished entirely. That's just how it was. And that was fine. that was normal. It just didn't belong to Peter anymore.

When Peter opened his eyes, Ms. Potts was a mom again. And there was the gut punch, though he felt a little less winded this time around. To busy his hands and avoid her gaze, he reached down and scooped up his suit. The light weight rested comfortably in his hands.

"Thanks, Ms. Potts." He tried to say it strongly, and to his satisfaction it came out as he had intended. He looked up again and steadily held her concerned gaze. Not flinching. Not breaking away.

"Are you okay?"

"Yeah," he answered automatically. Ms. Potts' expression didn't waver, and the pity was starting to make his hackles rise. He was telling the truth. He was as okay as he could be. But he couldn't snap at her. For once, he managed to have the foresight to look ahead and prevent something regrettable. Deflecting with humour, however, was perfectly acceptable in this house. And he had learned from the very best. "Don't worry. I'll be careful not to break anything while I'm out." Success. Ms. Potts' gaze didn't pity him anymore. But she did look confused. "Any of my bones, I mean," he clarified. "I promise, no ugly cast or crutches will muck up your wedding photos."

Ms. Potts shook her head in much the same manner that she did whenever Mr. Stark was being avoidant. But he could see the look in her eye, her defeated air that suggested that she was going to let this one go.

"You must not think very highly of me if you think that I would prioritize my wedding photos over your health." Peter cracked a small smile at that, hoping it was enough to clear up some of the offense. She smiled back, so he assumed he was forgiven. "Honestly though, if you come back here with anything more severe than a bruise, nothing's going to be able to stop Tony from bubble wrapping you. Not even me."

A bubble wrap suit actually sounded like a lot of fun, but Peter knew that wasn't the point she was trying to make.

"You think?"

"Oh, you better believe it." Ms. Potts said. Behind her words, a culmination of twenty years of pent up annoyance made her sound so very tired. "He'll probably pad all the sharp corners and edges in the apartment while he's at it. All the dull edges too."

"That'll happen anyway once it's time to baby proof the apartment. You can't blame that one on me. That's not my fault."

Ms. Potts gave him an odd look that Peter found vaguely insulting. It sort of reminded him of how MJ would look whenever she found something to be obvious and was waiting for Peter to catch up to speed. It was gone in a second, and Peter was left with the distinct impression that she had decided to let it go. Whatever it was.

"I hadn't even thought that far ahead," She confessed and then sighed in defeat. "So much time is going to be wasted unlocking and relocking anything we want to use. My morning routine is going to get dragged out at least fifteen minutes."

"Probably more," Peter agreed while trying to bite back his smirk. Ms. Potts rose to her feet, smoothing out the wrinkles in her pants with her hands as she straightened up.

"God help us," she muttered, already annoyed by something that hadn't happened yet.

"He won't," Peter said. Ms. Potts quirked a brow at him. "Mr. Stark's a force. God ain't got time for that."

Ms. Potts laughed at that and Peter was taken aback. He realized that he had never heard it before, and he took a moment to soak in his small accomplishment. She was still laughing as she left, shutting the door behind her, and padding down the hall.

"Of course he's not around to hear that." She muttered ruefully to herself from somewhere in the kitchen. A drawer slid open and metal utensils clacked together. "figures. The one time the kid dishes out a crispy burn, he's not even here."

It was Peter's turn to laugh. For the sake of transparency, he made sure to laugh loud enough for Ms. Potts to hear him down the hall. The sound of her rummaging through the kitchenware halted.

"Right. Enhanced hearing. Forgot about that." Peter coughed as he tried to contain his laughter. He looked down to his hands and curled his fingers more securely in to his spider suit. "Dinner's at seven. Better get going before I change my mind."

Peter was already in his suit before she finished talking. A second later, Spider-Man crawled out of his top floor window.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The unconventional pet conversation is my hat tip to Gerald the alpaca – a deleted scene in the movie. And also his predecessor, Howard Stark's flamingo, Bernard Stark. I'm not sure if I want to keep Gerald in my version of events. I don't know how he'll fit into things, if at all. So here is his moment to shine in case I decide to scrap him.


	10. Stepping in to the World

The glass of Peter's bedroom window was sun baked from the intense July heat. He clung to the outside of it, allowing the warmth to seep into his skin as he looked in to his bedroom from the opposite side. It was neat, far neater than Peter usual kept it, and he suddenly realized how confining the walls were. The room seemed so dimly lit in comparison to outside. The brilliant sunlight was blocked out by the walls and suddenly all the shadows and dark corners became noticeable in a way that they hadn't been when he sat within them. His heart beat fast in his chest and it was hard to contain the broad smile stretching across his face. He didn't fight it as he flipped himself over, still clinging tightly to the window, and faced the city.

New York had never looked more breath-taking than it did in that moment. Rows upon rows of giant buildings organized themselves in a procession of elegant high rises, quaint shops, and imposing business sectors. It was familiar and foreign at the same time. The Upper East Side was a neighbourhood that he had swung through from time to time, but since he knew no one here, he never had a reason to stay for long. If Queens were smothered in a layer of varnish, it might shine up nice like this place did. But then, Peter supposed, if that were to happen it wouldn't be Queens anymore. He closed his eyes, shutting out the gloss and feeling the sun beating down on him. A deep breath filled his lungs, expanding them completely, and he noted that the air smelled cleaner than he remembered it being before. Less smoggy. More crisp.

' _Less cars means less air pollution'_ , Peter thought and his pulse hastened at the implication. He couldn't turn his attention on to that thought for too long. His heart was fluttering. Soon it would escalate to an erratic pounding. Peter knew this. He had felt it countless times over the past couple of months. He needed to escape the thoughts that nipped at his heels before they sunk their claws into him.

_Jump._

He did.

Coiling and releasing his muscles, he threw himself off of the window and into a free fall. The familiarity of wind howling in his ears welcomed him home like an old friend. His blood was rushing to his head, plummeting downward just as he was. Wide, unblinking eyes watched the sidewalk draw closer and a laugh burst from his lips. A niggling sensation tugged at the pit of his stomach; the split-second warning before his spidey-sense screamed at him to turn back or die. Righting himself in mid-air, he shot out a web. The line went taut, the muscles in his arms burned from disuse, and the tips of his toes graze concrete as kinetic energy carried him through the arc. When the force of the swing had thrown him up as high as it could, he was weightless for an instant, suspended in mid-air and completely untouchable. Then he was falling again.

God, he had missed this: the rush of falling and soaring. But there was something else. Something that he couldn't name, but he had felt the crushing weight of it bearing down on him since the snap. It was eased in that moment, as Peter realized the deep appreciation that he had for his absolute control over falling. Tumbling through air, his life was in his hands and _only_ his. He had never truly understood before how important it was to have complete control and possession over his own life. His choices. His _future_. How had he managed to live his life, in the days before, with such a tenuous grasp on his life? His life was _his_. A wave of euphoria accompanied that simple epiphany, and suddenly, Peter was laughing.

"Peter."

"Karen!" he cried, a grin splitting his face. He hadn't realized how much he had missed her until he heard her voice again. He didn't even care that she sounded kind of ticked-off. "Oh my gosh, it's been forever since I heard your voice!"

"It's been 67 days."

"Like I said. Forever." He was laughing again, or maybe had never really stopped. He was just so happy to be here again. Patrolling the streets with his one friend who wasn't threatened by mortality. Karen was a system of codes and algorithms, and yet Peter couldn't help but view her as distinctly human. Like a friend, one that could never disappear. No… not quite a friend. She nagged him and looked out for him far too much to be just a friend. "How've you been?"

"I am well." She replied sternly, and Peter got the feeling that he was about to be chewed out. "That fall brought you in dangerously close proximity to the ground."

And just like that, all that good feeling and euphoria dried up.

Of course, she was concerned. Mr. Stark had programmed her that way after all. She was the eyes and ears that kept tabs on him at all times. He had probably triggered some sort of protocol when he fell too far. The term 'baby gate protocol' flashed before his mind, and a flush heated his cheeks. The knowledge that Mr. Stark apparently didn't trust Peter to know his own limits stirred some long-buried resentment in him, the like of which he hadn't felt since the Staten Island Ferry debacle.

"I'd like to remind you that your web shooters are in perfect working order."

"Yeah, yeah, I know," he replied, trying and failing to keep the snarky edge out of his voice. He took a deep breath, trying to shake off his annoyance and regain that exhilaration that he had experienced just moments ago. "I'm just getting the blood pumping. It's been stagnant for 67 days. You said so yourself."

"Placing yourself in unnecessary danger in order to incite a rush of adrenaline is not-"

"Oh, relax Karen. I'm fine." He cut her off, trying to sound more carefree than he actually was. "I promise I won't do it again." He aimed his webs higher, gaining more altitude and a better view of the city streets. He noted that they were largely empty, and those who did see him didn't react like they would've before. No pointing, no waving, no frantic fumbling with phones to get a video before he was gone. Just dead eyed apathy that unnerved him and shattered the illusion that this was an ordinary day of patrolling. "You see anything out of the ordinary, Karen?" A second passed with no answer. "Karen?" Still no answer. Peter frowned and touched down gently on a flat rooftop. Unease twisted in his gut and nervous energy made his feet shuffle. "Hey, are you mad at me?"

"I'm an AI and therefore not capable of feeling human emotions such as anger."

Yeah, Peter had definitely hurt her feelings. He didn't care what she said, her defensive tone rang with feigned indifference. His throat tightened and he wondered, with a sort of sad bewilderment, what was wrong with him. Why could he not stop himself from being such a dick to the few people he had left in his life?

"I'm sorry. I wasn't trying to be a jerk. It's just…" He took a moment, trying to collect his thoughts and put his frustration in to words. His arm wound across his middle, fingers curling in to the material on his side. "Things have been tough lately," he finished, and then cringed at how lame and cliché that sounded.

"How so?"

Peter almost laughed at that. God… where to begin?

"It's kind of a long story," he sighed, hoping she would take the hint and drop it. He ran a hand over his face and felt the bumps and ridges of a million tiny wires and circuits pressing against his skin. Karen waited, silent and patient, for him to continue. Peter realized that if he really wanted to, he could just leave right now. He didn't _need_ to explain himself… but the thought of patrolling such a quiet city with an equally silent companion sent a chill up his spine.

No. He needed things to be good between him and Karen. Someday, in the not too distant future, she might be the only one left in his life.

"Nothing's really up to me anymore. I don't have any control over any part of my life," he admitted, giving voice to his recent moment of clarity. Saying it aloud unwound something in him, and before he knew it the rest came tumbling out. "And I don't just mean that in the deep philosophical, life and death, sort of way. It's the little stuff too. Everything I do, anywhere I go, it all needs to be approved by Mr. Stark. And, like, I get it. This is a weird situation we're in. No one asked for it, and no one wanted it." Much to his shame, his voice cracked in his tight throat. His cheeks flushed under his mask, and he angrily bit his lip. He had had a month and a half to get used to things as they were now. How much longer would that fact sting him? It wouldn't always, surely. Everything came to an end eventually.

"Now I gotta reassure Mr. Stark and Ms. Potts that I'm fine like a million times a day. And it's pointless too because I _know_ they don't really believe me." He was rambling now. And whining. Even he could hear it. If Ned were here, he would've talked to him about this. His guy-in-the-chair always knew what was up in Peter's life. He had never realized before just how much he had taken Ned's willingness to listen for granted. Weeks worth of pent up frustration flowed from him and animated his hands with exaggerated gestures. "And before you say anything, Karen, I _am_ fine. Really, I am. I mean, I wish things were like how they were before. Back in the days when Mr. Stark had enough faith in me to leave me alone for a little while. Back when I could leave the house without security levels being raised to DEFCON 2."

"Do you want to be left alone?"

Karen's question ground Peter's tirade to a halt. An enthusiastic _'yes!'_ teetered on the tip of his tongue, but he swallowed it before it could be spoken aloud.

He was never alone. At least, not physically. And yet, a profound sense of loneliness haunted him. Sometimes he could push it away, but it always came creeping back eventually. During moments of quiet contentment with Mr. Stark and Ms. Potts, it would cruelly wind its way in to his consciousness and sink infectious roots into his happiness. It whispered ugly things to him: That he didn't truly belong anywhere anymore and he was a guest in Mr. Stark's life. He would see his mentor with Ms. Potts and Colonel Rhodes, and feel wisps of jealousy sear his insides because it was just so unfair that Mr. Stark got to keep _his_ MJ and Ned while Peter had to lose his. That was the ugliest thought of them all and the fact that it existed, even unspoken in the confines of his mind, scared him. It felt like a threat, or even more terrifying, the beginning of a degradation in to a person that he didn't want to be.

"I don't know what I want," he said weakly, and deflated under the helplessness that came with that confession. His hand cupped the back of his neck and rubbed the tense knots there. "Sorry… I'll stop whining now."

"Perhaps you would feel better if you communicated these feelings with-"

"You got anything for me, Karen?" he interrupted, already knowing what she was about to say and not wanting to hear it. "Any muggings? Robberies?" Hell, at this point he'd welcome anything. Even a grand theft bicycle or a cat stuck in a tree. He rolled his shoulders to loosen up his muscles and waited for Karen to report. After a long moment, she did.

"The police scanners are flooded with much more activity than usual." Well, that was… strange. Peter's eyes flitted down to the empty streets. Where was all that hiding? "A security alarm has been set off at a local furniture store; _'Crawford and Sons Hand-Crafted Designer Furniture'_. Its location is five blocks west of here."

A little map appeared in the upper left corner of his vision, a red path marking out the most direct route to the shop pinged with a little spidey marker. The effect was instantaneous and Peter felt himself swelling with excitement. Small time robberies… this was what Spider-Man was made for. Helping out the little guy, or in this case the little family owned business. With his original purpose unearthed, he felt a hint of normalcy returning to him. He bounced on the balls of his feet and punched the air.

"Thanks, Karen! You're the best!"

Turning on his heel, Peter ran in the direction marked out for him and kicked off of the roof.

"Happy to be of service," she said while not sounding at all happy. Her tone and the content of her words made Peter frown. 'Happy to be of service' was some customer-service sounding bullshit, and that wasn't them, right? Peter didn't think it was… and he had assumed that Karen thought so too.

"Hey, c'mon, don't be like that!" His voice came out high and squeaky, with no hope of lowering to something respectable. He wouldn't be embarrassed by it. He wouldn't. "I mean it, you're the best AI ever!" He miscalculated a sharp corner, and ended up running along the side of a skyscraper to avoid getting squished. ' _Focus up, Parker'_ , he thought to himself in his mentor's voice.

"That's very flattering, thank you," she said just as flatly. Peter chewed the inside of his cheek, measuring the genuineness of her words and coming up short. Maybe that wasn't such a great compliment when the only other contender for the title was FRIDAY. Well, he'd said best AI _ever_ , so throw JARVIS into the mix too. "I meant what I said too. I _am_ happy to be of service," she added with a softness reminiscent of their time together before Thanos.

Before Peter's hold on his life had started to slip and he'd fallen into a version of himself that shouldn't have ever existed.

A weight sunk in Peter's gut. Then that treacherous loneliness crept in. _'Are we friends?'_ , he wanted to ask, but fear of the answer held him back. _'Karen, do you even like me? Mr. Stark programmed you to stay. Would you leave if you could?'_. The thought of being barely tolerable to his literal partner in crime was so devastating that it rendered him silent. Instead, he listened to Karen's soft voice giving GPS-style directions that he didn't need, because chatter was always preferable to silence.

"Turn left."

He did.

"In five seconds, jump on to the roof of that Starbucks and run across to the other side."

A part of him itched to say that he could follow a map just fine, but that would just make things worse.

"We have arrived at the destination," she declared unnecessarily, as if Peter couldn't see two guys lifting a couch out of the smashed store front. A pick-up truck without a driver was parked on the curb and its tail gate was down. Suppressing the urge to roll his eyes, he muttered a quick thanks to Karen and landed solidly on the pavement near the two thieves.

"Hey, Guys!" Peter called out to the two men; One short and burly with brown hair and a red beard, the other tall and lanky with a blue Hawaiian print shirt. Red Beard was lifting with his knees, Blue Hawaiian with his back. _That'll hurt in the morning,_ Peter thought. Idly, he thought that he had seen Red Beard before, but he wasn't sure where. The pair blinked in surprise but didn't try to run like Peter thought they would. "That doesn't belong to you!"

Blue Hawaiian dropped his end of the couch as a look of genuine fright passed over his features.

_Thwip._

Peter webbed him to the wall. Red Beard, still holding his end, followed the action with his eyes.

"What the-?"

_Thwip._

Red beard looked down at his web covered body, as though trying to process how he'd gotten there. The couch clacked on to the street and fell on to its back. The rough pavement scraped the fine silk upholstery and left little pull marks in the fabric. Peter winced and quickly moved to set it on its feet.

"Oh, Spider-Man. You're still around?" asked Red Beard, a pleased smile stretching over his face. Peter stiffened halfway between straightening up the couch and he stared at the guy in stunned silence.

"Umm…Yeah?"

Red Beard's smile broadened, as if he had spotted an old friend at his high school reunion, and he nodded his head appreciatively.

What the hell was happening?

"You know this guy?" Blue Hawaiian asked, shooting his friend a speculative look.

"Yeah, yeah, yeah." Red Beard nodded with more vigor and flinched when he bumped his head against the exposed brick behind him. "You probably don't remember, but you stopped some asshole from hitting me in the intersection between 75th Avenue and 164th Street."

Peter's eyes widened as he recalled the incident. Nothing about it had been particularly memorable – he had saved tons of people from hit and runs – except for the way Red Beard had reacted. He had thanked Peter over and over again, asked for a selfie, and wanted to just _talk_ with him. He either didn't pick up on Peter's polite cues that he wanted to leave, or he chose to ignore them. That day, Peter had realized two things: that Spider-Man was something of a celebrity, and that he felt uncomfortable being one. Not that he didn't enjoy the gratitude, but that whole experience felt like gratitude on steroids.

"He ran a red and was about to run me over," Red Beard added to his friend, who looked shocked and slightly wary. They both turned their heads forward to face Peter, Red Beard still starry-eyed and Blue Hawaiian maintaining a look of uncertainty. They looked at him expectantly, and Peter realized that they were waiting for him to say something. He coughed to clear his throat, and Red Beard leaned forward as much as the webbing would allow him.

"Yeah, I remember," Peter finally said, awkwardness permeating every syllable. He resisted the urge to scuff his toes on the pavement. He was Spider-Man and he ought to show a little more grit. Also, he had a job to finish up here. With little effort, Peter hoisted the couch. It wasn't heavy, but its size made it rather cumbersome to lift. White silk cushions filled his vision as Peter walked in the general direction of the broken store front.

"Hey, what are you doing?"

Peter had had that question thrown at him often enough as Spider-Man, but usually it was a rhetorical question shouted in a fit of rage. Red Beard sounded innocently confused, and the stupidity of his question caught Peter off guard. He staggered to a halt, couch slipping slightly in his arms, and broken glass crunching under his feet. He readjusted his hold and craned his neck to look at Red Beard.

"Putting this couch back. It doesn't belong to you."

Red Beard's bushy brows pinched together, and he regarded Peter with a look of pure astonishment. How clueless was this guy? Did he really not understand what was happening, or was he just playing dumb?

"It doesn't belong to anyone anymore. There's no harm in taking it."

Something hot coiled and released in Peter's chest. In his mind he saw a door suspended in drywall, strangers living in his home, and he, the lone survivor, returning to find his home completely in tatters.

He set the couch down with unnecessary force. Not enough to break it, but enough to send a loud ' _thud'_ resounding through the street. Blue Hawaiian recoiled, back pressing in to the wall. Red Beard's brows shot up into his hair line.

"You don't get to decide-!"

"Whoa, whoa, whoa," Red Beard interrupted, all the while staring at Peter like _he_ was the irrational one. "Listen buddy, I think we got off on the wrong foot here. Lemme explain." His voice was placating, as if this was all one big misunderstanding and not the collective deterioration of societal standards of morality. Peter struggled to level his breathing, and a small part of his brain whispered to give him the benefit of the doubt. Because maybe… _maybe_ … this really wasn't what it seemed. Seeing Peter's ire contained visibly relaxed Red Beard (but not Blue Hawaiian, who had long since gone pale) and he continued. "I knew the guy that ran this furniture store. Gerald Crawford. He and his oldest kid ran the shop and his youngest was in little league with my boy. Anyways, he's gone. Him and his family. They ain't coming back."

Peter was a statue; perfectly still and body equally as heavy. Horror and disgust immobilized him and made him speechless. How could this guy be so cavalier about the worst tragedy to befall the world? His excuses sounded like he was explaining to his boss why he was late for work. It was all just so… so… God, Peter didn't even have words for this.

"So, you see, no one owns all of this stuff," Red Beard finished, sounding far too cheerful to be considered sane by Peter's standards. "It's just sitting here collecting dust. If we don't take it now, you _know_ that those big chain, corporate suppliers will repossess all of this unbought surplus, and that's the _real_ crime 'cause Crawford paid for it. Don't you think it would be better if it were given to the community? Distributed among us survivors who are look at hard times ahead?"

A shiver wracked over Peter despite the summer heat. Red Beard had laid his reasoning out with such strong conviction, as though it were only logical that Peter would agree. And maybe he would've if he had found thieves stealing groceries or some other essential need. But no one _really_ needed an Italian silk couch.

"Karen," Peter hoisted the couch up again. "Let the police know I got a couple thieves here waiting for them."

"Sure thing."

Peter stepped with the couch through the broken window and ignored the spluttering protests from Red Beard.

"Hey, what the hell!"

Ah. There was the outrage. He was finally acting the part of the thief. Peter set the couch down in the middle of the showroom and took a moment to look around. In the far end, there was a desk. Peter decided, if he was gonna be Spider-Man again, he better do it right; He'd leave a note for the cops.

The stationary, headed with the company name, was crisp and had a heavy weight. Even the pen glided smoother than what Peter was used to. Flipping an invoice over to the blank side on the back, he wrote:

' _Found: Thieves profiting off of genocide. Sorry the couch (the white silk one) got dinged up. – Spider-Man'_

Peter stared at his words for a moment, pen poised and ready to scrub it out. It was harsh, he could see that even through his boiling blood. But something inside him was deeply satisfied by calling that psyco out on his shit. _Call a spade a spade_ , he thought and set the pen down on the desk. In the top drawer, among the miscellaneous office supplies, was scotch tape.

Red Beard and Blue Hawaiian were craning their necks sideways to get a look at Peter as he clambered through the window again.

"The fuck, man! Get off!" Red Beard shouted as Peter tore off some tape and stuck the note to his chest. Red Beard tilted his head down, craning his thick neck in his struggled to read it. He gave up just as Peter had turned his back to walk across the street. "Hey, can you read that? Whazzit say?" Peter turned to look back, just in time to see Blue Hawaiian's eyes flying across the note. For a second, their gaze met. Peter had expected to see some hostility there, but was met with only shame. He pressed his lips in to a thin line, and dropped his gaze, leaving Red Beard to grumble in his silence. Peter turned to keep walking, and he heard the fast, irate drumming of a heeled shoe against the sidewalk. "The cops got other shit to deal with! Prison breaks and murderers and _real_ criminals! You think anyone's gonna care about this!?"

Peter's stride halted mid-step as he neared the other side of the street. He _had_ heard about that. How could he not, when Ms. Potts and Mr. Stark had argued about it at length? But he had made a promise to Ms. Potts to come back uninjured… avoiding highly dangerous situations ensured that he was able to keep his promise. His stomach knotted painfully, and he tried to ignore its presence.

It's not that he was avoiding responsibility. He wasn't. He was just… getting back to his roots.

But something about Red Beard's comment stung. In response, Peter's pulse hastened, as panic took hold of him. Would anyone care? He _needed_ to know that they would. Petty crime was still crime, even if it seemed to be increasingly common in this chaotic new world. Surely, theft still mattered. Because, if it didn't… what else wouldn't matter? What would that lead to? Allowing a petty crime to go unpunished would ensure that a more serious ones would result from it. Things would escalate, and Peter knew all too well that horrific consequences could come from turning a blind eye.

Hadn't he once let a thief escape only to then be robbed of his uncle?

In an instant, the image of Uncle Ben, shot and bleeding out, flashed before his eyes. His life could've been saved before it had ever been in danger, if only Peter had the courage to stop a thief. But he didn't because at the time, he hadn't thought that a hundred bucks from a register mattered all that much. Later, when he'd felt his uncle's life slip from between his fingers, he realized all of what his apathy had cost him.

Something in Peter hardened, turning his doubt in to determination. _Let's prove him wrong,_ Peter thought, beseeching the world in general. With the bait caught up in his webs, all Peter had to do was wait for the police to claim it. He took a running start through an alley and vaulted over a chain link fence. He disappeared from sight, slipping through back roads until he was far enough away that he knew that the two thieves wouldn't be able to see him. He crept up the side of a building and crouched down on the roof.

In the distance, Peter's sharp eyes could barely make out the blue smudge of Blue Hawaiian's shirt.

"Hey, Karen, activate enhanced reconnaissance mode, please?"

"From this distance, it is unlikely that the audio will be comprehensible."

"That's fine," Peter said brusquely, settling himself down as comfortably as possible on the rough surface. The hot cement tiles made him squirm uncomfortably. Sensing his discomfort, Karen silently activated his suits cooling system. He mumbled a quick _'thanks',_ folded his arms on the raised ledge and dropped his chin on to his forearms. "I don't need to hear them. I just need to see if he's right," he muttered ruefully. The lenses on his mask magnified the vision in the distance, and his two captives were brought in to sharp focus. They were wriggling like flies in his web and Peter smirked at their struggle.

"Do you intend to wait for the police to arrive?"

"You betcha."

Karen fell silent and for once Peter was glad for it. He had never had much patience when it came to waiting. That time he had been trapped with Karen in the Damage Control Deep Storage Vault, he had chatted endlessly with her about everything and anything to pass the time (all thirty-seven minutes of it). He had overshared a bit too much, if he was being totally honest with himself. But now, he didn't feel the need to fill the silence with pointless chatter. A new found calm settled over him and focused his attention on the captive criminals. It would seem that being stranded in space with nothing to do for weeks on end had done wonders for his patience and endurance.

Well, how about that? It may have taken a month and a half, but he finally managed to find a silver lining to that shitty situation. If Peter weren't so preoccupied with the outcome of his test, and the moral implication that rested contingent upon it, he might've laughed.

"Peter…" Karen said and he perked up. "I don't believe that the police are coming. Perhaps it would be better if-"

"You've barely given them a chance. Just _wait_ ," he seethed through clenched teeth. A weight settled in his stomach, and he resented its presence. There was no need to be anxious. "They'll show up in a minute. You'll see."

Peter kept his eyes focused on the two in the distance. They were arguing, it would seem, though Peter couldn't hear them. Blue Hawaiian stood poker straight and Red Beard fought relentlessly against his bonds.

A minute became two. Then five. When it became fifteen, Peter stopped shooting glances at the clock in the bottom right corner of his vision.

Red Beard had stopped struggling, and the two of them stood slumped against the wall. Like children who were running down the clock, waiting for their time out to be over.

A chill fell over Peter, startling him from his post. He glanced away quickly to see the tall building beside him stretching out its long shadow and engulfing him in the shade. He leaned forward to see around the building and got a peak at the setting sun. His muscles groaned at him for sitting for so long. When he looked back at his captives, his stomach dropped.

They were pulling bits of dissolved webbing off of their bodies.

Red Beard pulled at handfuls of silver string and wiped them on the wall he'd been stuck to. Blue Hawaiian freed himself enough to move his limbs, and left the rest as it was. Scrabbling wildly at the note on his chest, Red Beard ripped it off, read it, and laughed. Though Peter couldn't hear it, he could see how it shook his whole body. Blue Hawaiian remained silent and still, and Peter hoped that he might leave. But then Red Beard disappeared in to the store, and without hesitation, his friend followed. They emerged, lugging a couch, in much the same manner that they had when Peter had arrived. They loaded it in to the truck, got in the cab, and drove off.

And Peter… he let them go.

_Go after them!_

He didn't.

He knew he should. That was Spider-Man's purpose. But suddenly his limitations became apparent to him. He was the middle man. The person who webbed up criminals so the cops could receive them. But without them…

What was his job now? Was it just to apprehend criminals that the justice system had no interest in prosecuting? Minorly inconveniencing them until the webbing dissolved and they could leave? What was the point of such a Sisyphean task? He imagined the days, months, maybe even years to come, with him doing his part to capture criminals. All of it for nothing.

All of that time wasted. His double life suddenly stripped of its value.

He was tired, he realized, despite having done virtually nothing all day. It was a weariness that sank into his bones and settled heavily. This sort of fatigue made no logical sense to Peter, but it had plagued him in odd spurts for months.

"Incoming call from Tony Stark."

Peter's eyes widened and darted down to the clock.

_7:01 pm._

"Oh, shi-"

"Hey, Spider-Man." Mr. Stark's scowling face popped in to his field of vision. "Pepper tells me that she gave you some very simple rules to follow."

_Dinner at seven. You had one job, Parker_. Somehow, even his own inner chastising voice managed to sound tired.

"Yeah, I know. I'm coming."

Mr. Stark's scowl dropped and was replaced with a subtle concern that Peter was deeply familiar with.

"Hey, you alright?"

Peter hummed in agreement, but it didn't seem to ease his worries at all. "I'll be there in ten minutes. Go ahead and eat, don't wait for me."

"Peter-"

"End call."

The call cut off, and Peter was alone once more. He sat on the roof for a few long moments, trying to summon the energy and motivation to stand. To move. He felt drained, but despite that he rose to his feet. He had imposed a time limit on himself, and for now that was enough.

_Jump._

He did. But this time he made sure that a web was securely attached to a structure before doing so.

_Ten minutes,_ he reminded himself as he rose and fell again and again. This time without any trace of thrill, just a prevailing sense of disillusionment that mutely throbbed like an ache under anesthetic.

* * *

True to his word, Peter arrived at the apartment in ten minutes.

True to her word, Ms. Potts had dinner ready and keeping warm on the stove when he got there.

Getting back to the apartment, Peter had watched the scenery flow past like frames in a film strip. Karen provided unnecessary and unsolicited directions, which he mutely obeyed, until he found himself clambering through his bedroom window. Moving without thinking, he'd pulled off his mask while walking to the kitchen. He'd sat himself down at the table and saw Ms. Potts and Mr. Stark exchange a brief worried glance.

' _Peter, you need a shower,'_ Ms. Potts had told him gently, so as to not offend him. Registering the indirect order, Peter had gathered a change of clothes from his room and slipped into the bathroom. Catching a glimpse of his stringy, sweat-soaked hair in the bathroom mirror, Peter couldn't help but think that statement had summed up perfectly the difference between his old life and his new one. Ms. Potts was cautious while May had no qualms with telling Peter that he smelled like garbage when he did. Vaguely, Peter realized that he drew a comparison between the two women far too often, and with an increasing sense of dread he wondered why he felt the need to do that. Their similarities began and ended at legal responsibilities, to expect anything more was unfair to them both.

Shrouded in that disquieting revelation, Peter failed to notice that he was still standing under the shower head as he turned the water on.

Cold water hit him, and made him jump out of his skin. A few seconds later it warmed and he relaxed, reveling in the warmth and sudden clarity of his mind. The shock of cold water had shaken him out of his stupor, and Peter marveled at how easily he'd snapped out of… whatever that was. Hot water washed over him, and made him come alive again.

_Get a grip._

The order was more manageable now than it had been seconds ago.

Hastily washing, drying, and dressing himself, Peter returned to the dining room to find Mr. Stark, Ms. Potts, and steaming, delicious pasta waiting for him.

Dinner was a tense affair.

Well, it was for Peter anyway. If the heavy set of Mr. Stark's shoulders was anything to go by, it was tense for him too. Ms. Potts, immune to the atmosphere, ate her spaghetti in the same casually dignified way that she did most of everything. No one was keen on small talk, or any other sort of talk, so they ate in silence.

The trouble with awkward dinners, Peter decided, was that once the food was gone there was nothing left to divert his attention to. He had experienced his fair share of tense dinners with May, writhing under her heated gaze. It was no less torturous under Mr. Stark's. Ms. Potts cleared the table, and usually Peter would help… but Mr. Stark remained seated and he was pinning Peter down with a stern look. So he followed Ms. Potts with his gaze until finally the dishes were piled in the sink. With that done, she met Peter's eyes with a small apologetic smile, placed a hand on her belly and murmured something about an _upset stomach_ and _hormones_ and _needing to lie down_.

Well, that was fishy. Peter didn't buy it for a minute. Glancing over at Mr. Stark, he saw his eyes flicker upward with an air of tired annoyance. The sort that Peter had seen on Ms. Potts' face innumerable times, but rarely on Mr. Stark's. It spoke of an argument that Peter didn't need to witness to know had occurred. Peter's stomach clenched, knowing that he'd been the cause, as usual. Mr. Stark waited until they both heard his and Ms. Potts' bedroom door click shut.

And then it was just the two of them.

Peter's knee was bouncing, seemingly of its own accord, to alleviate some of the stifling tension that was cramping his body. Mr. Stark's eyes dropped to the table, as though he could see through the wood to the offending leg, before tilting his head towards the kitchen in wordless invitation. Peter sprang to his feet, his chair wobbling and threatening to fall over. Mr. Stark shot him a wry smile before turning to the kitchen.

"Relax, Spiderling," he called over his shoulder. "Jury's still out on your execution."

Peter scampered after him. Coming to stand by his side at the sink, Peter glanced at the dishwasher by Mr. Stark's other side. He expected him to reach down and open it, but instead he threw Peter a dish towel. He caught with ease but the setules in his fingertips and palm, reflexively raised from his distress, clung to the fibers of the towel and it hung limply from his open hand.

"Oh, c'mon," he grumbled, narrowing his eyes at the towel. He tugged it gently and heard the telltale sound of fabric beginning to rip. A choked laugh made him look up, and the sight of Mr. Stark suppressing a grin, as though he were trying to remind himself that he was mad at Peter, made relief wash over him like a wave. The towel fell from his hand on to the counter, and Peter followed it with his eyes.

"I'll wash, you dry," Mr. Stark said, still smirking as he squeezed some soap into the basin of the sink and turned on the faucet. Well, that was new… and kinda weird. They'd never washed the dishes by hand before. They didn't even have a drying wrack, so Peter guessed that he'd just dry the dishes and stack them on the counter. His brow furrowed as he eyed the counter space, but he didn't protest.

Citric lemon wafted through the air, enveloping Peter and giving him comfort in its familiarity. Mr. Stark handed him a wet plate, and for a few minutes Peter allowed the rhythmic work calm his nerves. Plate after plate, dried and placed on the counter. They had moved onto the cutlery when Mr. Stark spoke again.

"So, Pep tells me that it was totally, 100% her idea to let you go and that I shouldn't be mad at you for patrolling without running it by me first."

Peter froze, clutching a handful of forks, and watched the drops of water drip off of the handles. Washing dishes was kind of therapeutic, he decided. Standing on the threshold of his mentor's impending anger didn't feel nearly as intimidating as it had just moments before. Maybe it was just the exhaustion of the day wearing him down, but the lecture and punishment that awaited him didn't incite as much dread as he knew it should've. It all just seemed so trivial.

"You can be mad if you want. I could've said no," he answered honestly, and placed the dried forks beside the plates.

"See, that's what I said. Nice to see we're all on the same page."

Peter balled up the towel in his damp hands and stared down into the depths of the sink. A second passed, then two, and finally he turned his head to look at his mentor. He looked… not angry but not happy either. Just some sort of lukewarm shade in between the two. Nothing at all like he had when he'd reamed Peter out on top of that building near the Staten Island Ferry. But then again, Peter hadn't endangered anyone's life this time. All he was guilty of was trying to get back to his normal life. The righteousness in that justification made his spine stand a little taller.

"Well, Ms. Potts tells _me_ that you were never gonna give me permission to leave."

Mr. Stark's eyebrow quirked, and Peter's spine shriveled back down in response.

"She did, huh."

"Yep," Peter nodded, and then cringed as he realized his small betrayal. "Not trying to sell out Ms. Potts or anything, but she did say that."

Mr. Stark clenched his jaw and turned back to the sink. He fished out a glass and scrubbed it with a bit more vigor than usual.

"Well, contrary to what she believes, Miss Potts doesn't _know_ everything that I'm thinking." He handed the rinsed glass to Peter, who dutifully dried it. A flush of heat was creeping up his neck, and he tried to ignore it.

"So, you _were_ gonna let me be Spider-Man again?" he asked, trying to keep the skepticism out of his voice. Mr. Stark's sharp look informed him that he'd failed.

"Of course. I'm way too invested in your spidey adventures to pull the plug on it now."

He handed Peter another glass.

"When was that gonna happen?" He didn't even try to keep the disbelief out of his voice that time. A flustered look passed over Mr. Stark's face, and Peter knew he'd called him out on… well, maybe nothing as harsh as a lie, but certainly some lesser degree of dishonesty that existed between the absolutes of lie and truth.

"When you were ready," he replied with a bit of bite. He placed the sauce pan in the water and tomato sauce leeched out, staining the white suds an angry red. "Which you clearly aren't, by the way."

"I'm fine."

"No, you're not _hurt_ ," he corrected. "I know that you're not fine cause you wandered in here looking like an extra on the set of ' _the Walking Dead'_." Peter cocked his head, and took the rinsed pan from him. "Zombie-like," Mr. Stark clarified with a sigh, and Peter nodded in understanding. "Yeah, okay, that wasn't a great analogy. Cut me some slack, I've been up here stress eating banana bread while you've been out gallivanting through the Upper East Side," he tipped his chin towards the loaf sitting on a cutting board on the kitchen island. A dirtied bread knife sat beside it, and Peter noticed that a significant amount of his boredom baking creation was missing. "You gonna tell me what happened out there or are you gonna make me guess?"

Peter frowned at the drops of water glistening on the pan. He didn't already know? Mr. Stark had Karen at his disposal, he could've just reviewed the footage. But he didn't. Peter realized with an equal measure of astonishment and shame that his mentor had always respected his privacy. He didn't deserve Peter's doubt and suspicions.

"Would you guess?" Peter asked to distract himself from the guilt churning in his gut.

"No," Mr. Stark said and the bluntness of it made Peter's hands halt in the middle of drying. "With you, there's no such thing as improbability. Anything, no matter how unlikely, has just as much chance of happening as the average, mundane stuff. Just tell me, or we're gonna be here all day playing twenty questions."

Peter made an involuntary high-pitched noise, and threw an indignant glace over at his mentor. He was washing the big pot that Ms. Potts had boiled the pasta in. A small smile played at the corner of his mouth. Well, that was rude. He could've at least had the decency to look apologetic while saying that.

"That's not true-"

"No need to deny it, my cosmic stowaway," he flapped a hand at Peter, flecking him with drops of water. "There's no one here to save face for. Just me, and I've been here for all of it. The good stuff and the bad."

Well, okay. He might've had a point there. Peter's defense sounded pretty weak when he considered the fact that he was only sixteen and had been to space. Deep space, too. Not even anywhere in the known universe.

He sighed, refocused himself, and squished the mostly damp dish towel in his hands.

"I stopped a robbery."

Mr. Stark pulled the plug out of the drain, watched the water start to lower, and when no further information came, he shot Peter a prompting look.

"And?"

"And nothing. That's all."

"Then why the long face?"

Peter clenched his jaw, as though to trap the words behind his teeth. He took his time with the pot, drying every last speck of water on it and setting it down gently. With nothing more to occupy his hands, and sensing Mr. Stark's growing impatience, he opened his mouth.

"I think that Spider-Man might be obsolete."

There. He'd said it. His feeling of resignation existed outside of his own mind now that Mr. Stark had heard it. In some strange way, voicing his tormenting thought felt liberating. He felt light, until he glanced to the side and saw Mr. Stark's stunned expression.

"What?"

With a sigh, Peter's shoulder's bunched, and he launched into his long-winded tale. He told Mr. Stark all of it; how he had once saved Red Beard's life, how neither of the thieves considered themselves to be criminals, his worry over the normalization of crime, and most importantly, how Karen had informed the police but they never came.

Somewhere during his long, rambling tale – he wasn't a good story teller, and probably never would be. So, sue him- he had migrated over to the kitchen island.

"So, yeah," Peter mumbled, hopping on a bar stool and pulling the cutting board and bread knife towards himself. "You might have to pull the plug on Spider-Man, since there's no work for him anymore."

_Or I might have to._ The bleak thought, even without being spoken aloud, made his stomach do complicated and painful twists. Giving up would be so much easier if someone forced his to do it. Quitting of his own volition made something inside him seize in protest. The stool next to him slid out and Mr. Stark sat down.

"Hey, Pete, remind me again. What's your MO?"

Peter's lips pressed into a hard line as he cut himself off a generous slice of banana bread.

"To look out for the little guy," he muttered.

"Right," Mr. Stark leaned his elbow casually on the marble topped island. "Well, I happen to know for a fact that there'll always be a little guy that needs looking out for." Peter stared down dejectedly at his slice, flopped over on its side on the wooden board, and started ripping off and rolling the edges in to sticky crumbs with his fingertips. "Spider-Man does more than apprehend thieves, right?"

"Yeah. He also stops grand theft bicycles, muggings, and gives directions to lost tourists."

He glanced up, determinedly meeting Mr. Stark's gaze. He could see in his eyes his thoughts shifting as he pieced together what Peter was getting at.

"What about all the other good stuff you've done? You stopped Adrian Toomes from getting ahold of my tech and selling it to nefarious hands. Doesn't that count?"

"There was a lot of dumb luck involved in that," Peter reminded him in a low voice, casting his eyes down to avoid the oncoming disappointment. He was surprised to hear Mr. Stark scoff instead.

"Three quarters of hero work is 'dumb luck'. Or 'strategic utilization of one's surrounds at the most opportune moment', as I like to think of it." His tone was light, joking, carefree, and just so… infuriatingly Mr. Stark. At any other time, a welcomed presence that put him at ease, but now staggeringly tone deaf to his plight. Peter bit the inside of his cheek and tried not to give in to the upsurge of frustration he felt. His fingers continued to rip the banana bread in to little chunks while he quelled the turmoil within him to submission.

"I thought you didn't want me to patrol at all. Why're you trying to encourage me?" he snapped, and a hand came to rest on his forearm.

"Cause I _know_ you," Mr. Stark's fingers squeezed his arm, causing Peter's own to cease their bread mangling. "I admit it, I'm not happy with this clandestine meet up between you and Pepper. Seriously, I'm not a fan of the sneaking around behind my back part of you guys' relationship, or the making decisions without me part of it." Peter tensed under Mr. Stark's hand, and he withdrew it. "But your return to Spider-Man was bound to happen one way or another. Even though you're trying to sell yourself short, I know you're capable of doing more. I've seen it."

Peter's breathing hitched, and he rubbed his tacky fingertips against each other. To have his efforts recognized in such a way… it was everything that Peter had ever wanted to hear from his mentor. How ironic that it came at precisely the wrong time. When he glanced up again, Mr. Stark was looking at him in a way that made all the fight leave Peter's body.

"Seems to me that you're scared," Mr. Stark said without a hint of taunt or ridicule. Defensive hackles raised inside Peter, and it was on the tip of his tongue to snark back that he _wasn't_ scared. But that knowing look, saturated with profound understanding, unsettled him and muted any sort of retort.

With a frustrated sigh, Peter realized that this was getting him nowhere. He needed to make Mr. Stark understand, because the man had so spectacularly missed the point that Peter was trying to make. This wasn't about him. He wasn't the one with the problem. He was _fine_. The problem was with everyone else.

"The world's changed," he finally said, taking a moment's pause to piece together his scrambled thoughts. "I first created Spider-Man so I could help the little guy. Then we met and you gave me a suit that made the whole crime fighting job a lot easier. Then I got way too ahead of myself, and tried to do too much." Mr. Stark's face pinched in confusion, and Peter knew he was wondering where he was going with this. "Then, I got my ass handed to me by the Vulture and nearly got squashed to death under a building." Mr. Stark flinched and his fingers twitched, as though tempted to ball into a fist. A fleeting stab of guilt passed over Peter for having brought up such a sore spot, but then he pressed on. "And, y'know, that whole experience really taught me a lesson about humility and staying in my lane. So, I decided to stay the friendly neighbourhood Spider-Man and to keep looking out for the little guy." He took a breath then to strengthen his nerve before moving on. "And then Thanos' minions showed up and I tagged along 'cause it was the right thing to do. Then I got my ass handed to me again, but in _space_ this time."

"You, me, Strange, and Flash Gordon's ragtag band of misfits all got our collective asses handed to us," Mr. Stark interrupted. "Hell, I got shish kabobbed with my own sword, and out of the two of us _I'm_ supposed to be the seasoned veteran. The fall out of that shit show's not on you, kid."

This time, it was Peter's turn to flinch. The image of Mr. Stark's wounded stomach, already packed and sealed with nanotech coolant, flashed before his eyes. He remembered helping Mr. Stark to his feet, terrified of internal bleeding and ruptured organs, and trying so _desperately_ to not hear Uncle Ben's wet, bloodied coughs echoing in the recesses of his mind.

_Not now. Move on,_ he commanded himself, and with steely resolve, he placed that memory on the shelf.

"I just don't know if I'm cut out for more than robberies and muggings," Peter finished, ignoring Mr. Stark's softening look. "Seems like every time I try to step up and be _more_ than what I am, things go off the rails." Mr. Stark opened his mouth and Peter flapped a hand at him before he could speak. "No, no, let me finish, please. I'm getting to the point here." With some reluctance, Mr. Stark closed his mouth and waited for Peter to find his words. It took a few moments to desperately flounder to the surface of his tangled thoughts, as Peter struggled to find a concise way to express how everything had been turned on its head. He looked down to his pile of bread crumbs, for no other reason than to avoid Mr. Stark's searching gaze.

"The world's changed," he reiterated. "It's gotten way bigger, and chaotic, and… nothing makes sense anymore. I created Spider-Man to help the little guy back when the little guy's problems were smaller. Now, they're bigger." He meant to elaborate on that. Express how exactly they were _bigger_ , but suddenly the gravity of the situation became all encompassing. Its weight bore down on him, and all Peter could do was power through with a ragged sigh. "The thing is I _still_ want to be the friendly neighbourhood Spider-Man. Nothing's changed there. But the world I grew up in is gone, and I don't know if I have a place in this new one."

"Your place is here."

Peter froze as those words struck him with paralyzing force. Mr. Stark said it like it was the most obvious thing in the world, and yet it was delivered with the ringing tone of sudden comprehension, as if a great mystery had just revealed itself to him. In the depths of his mind, a voice chastised him for not clarifying that he'd meant that _Spider-Man_ had no place, not Peter Parker. But almost as soon as the thought had presented itself, doubt and uncertainty extinguished it.

"Hey, look at me."

Peter could only obey, as his mind was suddenly devoid of thought. Mr. Stark's eyes flickered over his face, searching for something unknown to Peter and seemed to be disappointed to find it absent. He nodded to himself, and Peter saw quick flashes of an internal struggle fought behind his pained expression. Peter's stomach bottomed out, but he could barely feel its eerie presence before Mr. Stark's face smoothed in to one of hardened determination.

"Spider-Man is yours. Period," he told Peter, his usual bluntness colouring his tone. "He always has been and always will be yours to use or not use however you want. You got full autonomy on that. It was wrong of me to try to hold you back from it," he paused and his mouth snapped shut. Peter could sense him swallowing the rest of whatever it was that he wanted to say. His eyes became lost in thought, but only for a moment, before he continued. "Figuring out Spidey's place in the world is up to you. If you want to limit yourself to petty crimes, that's fine. And if you want to retire him and join the old geezers club super early, that's fine too. We'll tinker in the lab, squeeze in some rounds of bingo, and eat dinner at four like the seniors do."

Peter could tell that Mr. Stark was fishing for a smile, but he went completely unaffected by his usual brand of humour. Instead his eyes widened as he processed the option given to him. There hadn't been an ounce of judgment or disappointment there. Only a sincerity that chased away the tension in his body. His shoulders dropped – he hadn't realized that they'd been bunched – and in response Mr. Stark's expression softened. He clapped a hand on his shoulder and squeezed briefly. His face slid into something decidedly serious, and he continued.

"Alright, listen up, 'cause this is the part that I need you to understand," he gave his shoulder a little shake before pulling back his hand. "Peter Parker's place in the world is _here_." He rapped his knuckles on the marble island top to punctuate his point, and Peter's throat grew tight. "You're gonna be _here_ , with us. In a week, the shiny new lab will be finished and in need of a mad science christening. Honestly, I've gone too long without some controlled chaos in my life. It's good for the soul." He was rambling, like usual, and Peter listened with rapt attention. He allowed it to wash over him like the tide going out and pulling him closer with each wave. "And I know that you'll continue to win Pepper over with your awkward teenage charm. Before you know it, she'll like you more than me and I'll just have to deal with it." His mock hurt teased a smile out of Peter. "And in about six months, there'll be the cutest baby known to man available for cuddling."

Mr. Stark paused, eyeing Peter with an open earnestness that made him feel vulnerable. His words settled over him, painting a picture that he had stolen glances at in his periphery countless times, but had been too frightened to fully look at before: Peter's place in Mr. Stark's life.

They had never really talked about it before, Peter realized, and in the past month or so, he'd been too overwhelmed by his grief and intimidation of the future to dare broach the topic. Not wanting his presumption to ruin whatever he did have, he'd taken it upon himself to assume that he was a minor player. To be told otherwise was all at once jarring and surreal. The idea that he could just _live_ his life in the company of the people he cared for – and who cared for _him_ -, without the expectation that he uphold his vigilantism, was freeing in a way that Peter hadn't expected. If he stopped being Spider-Man his original tie to Mr. Stark would effectively be severed…and yet, there was no hint of pretense in what Mr. Stark was saying: He still wanted Peter around.

"So, I guess the point that _I'm_ trying to make here is that I got plans and you're in them," Mr. Stark finished, his casual air undermined by the look of trepidation in his eyes. They stayed on Peter, cautiously taking in every part of his reaction. Peter remained silent, even though he knew Mr. Stark wanted him to say something. His throat was too tight to speak. Honestly, he really wanted a hug, but kept that to himself because Mr. Stark looked distinctly uncomfortable. "In case that wasn't clear before, now it is."

A silence fell and grew more and more stifling with each passing moment. Peter coughed around the lump in his throat.

"Crystal clear," he choked out, though the smile that followed it was genuine. Mr. Stark smiled then, but shifted uncomfortably in his seat. His eyes trailed to the cutting board where the loaf of banana bread sat next to Peter's crumbled piece.

"That's some good banana bread, by the way," he said appreciatively, and Peter recognized his desperate need for a change of subject. Suddenly exhausted, he was only too happy to go along with it. "Keep up your baking-out-of-boredom thing and I'll have to start hitting the gym again. Or let my pants out. What the hell, I'm retired. I can let myself go a little."

Peter cast his eyes down and smirked at his pile of crumbs. He tried to imagine a chubby Mr. Stark but couldn't.

"Thanks," he said instead. "It's May's recipe."

"Really? She could cook?"

The genuine shock in Mr. Stark's voice made him laugh, as did the mental image of May's offended expression if she were here. She could take any kind of criticism without any hard feelings, except when it came to her cooking. In all the years that Peter had lived with her, he'd only ever seen Ben get away with it. And that was only because he'd mastered the art of framing criticisms as compliments.

"Sometimes she could whip up something edible."

"So that walnut date loaf she gave me was a failed assassination attempt?" Peter quirked a brow at Mr. Stark. "Was it supposed to prepare me for the cyanide loaf? Lull me into a false sense of security and then _bam_ , death by high fiber fruit? I didn't think she hated me that much."

The knots in Peter's stomach were eased by his laughter and he eyed his crumbs with renewed interest.

"Maybe it's a good thing that you never came back to our apartment," he said while scooping some of the larger chunks into his cupped palm. "Billionaire murdered in Queens by a middle-aged woman with poisoned zucchini loaf sounds like the lamest game of _'clue'_ ever."

"It'd make a killer headline though. Pun intended," Mr. Stark mused. "One of those ones that jumps out at you and gets crazier the further you read."

Peter nodded and raised his cupped hand to his mouth.

"Seriously? You're still gonna eat that?"

He paused, hand suspended in front of his face, and glanced at Mr. Stark's disgusted expression.

"What? It's just a little misshapen."

"You disintegrated it. It's basically atoms now."

Peter shrugged and tipped the pile into his mouth.

"S'all goin' to da same place," he mumbled and patted his stomach. Mr. Stark's eyes narrowed and he shook his head.

"Gross." Peter's smiled as best he could while still chewing, and Mr. Stark's disgust became tinged with fondness. Then he sighed and heaved himself to his feet. "Guess I should go give Pepper the 'all clear', so she can stop faking pregnancy distress. And honestly, I might just turn in for the night. It's been one hell of a day," he ran a hand over his face, suddenly looking very tired. He eyed Peter evenly and asked: "You good?"

Peter didn't even have to consider the answer. It came easily to him.

"Yeah. I am," he said honestly, and for the first time since returning to Earth, it looked as though Mr. Stark believed him. There was no doubt, no suppressed fear, no poorly hidden skepticism in his expression. The air suddenly became breathable, and Peter realized that he felt truly relaxed, albeit completely worn out, in a way that he hadn't felt in a long time.

"Alright," Mr. Stark reached over and patted him lightly on the back as he walked past. "Night, kid."

"Night," Peter echoed back as he watched him disappear down the hall.

Turning back to his 'atomized' pile of crumbs, he took a moment to bask his overwhelming feeling of complete happiness. His hands were jittery with energy, and without fully realizing that he'd done it, they had swept over the pile, evening them out on the surface. His finger pushed doodles into the crumbs. Some squiggles, his Spider-Man insignia, finally two dots and a curved line smile up at him, and Peter became aware of how ridiculous he was being.

He shook his head, reminding himself that he wasn't twelve, and swept up the crumbs off of the island and into this hand. They made a sound like rain when Peter threw it in the trash. He lifted his arms above his head and stretched out his tired body, before turning to wander towards his room.

It had been a long day. With the world in the state it was in, there would likely be many more long days ahead. But if they all ended like this, Peter didn't mind.


	11. Embracing Possibility

"C'mon, man, you gotta bank or you'll get stuck in the sand. What don't you get about that?"

Peter frowned in frustration, not taking his eyes off of the tv screen, even though Colonel Rhodes' – _Rhodey's,_ Peter reminded himself. He had been insistent that Peter call him that – words became increasingly grating against his nerves. On screen, Toad's red and white mushroom head bobbled along, and the wheels of his kart spun uselessly through the grainy, pixelated, sand beach.

"It's not me, the joystick keeps getting stuck!" Peter argued. His thumb pressed the stick hard to the left, but time and usage had made it incredibly loose in its socket and it lagged horribly in its response time.

"Don't blame the controller for your sucking. This is all you."

Jeez. This was embarrassing. Peter liked to consider himself a fairly well-versed gamer and he was getting his ass beat by a total novice. Disgraceful. Ned would've been absolutely ashamed of him. In his defense, Peter had never actually played on a Nintendo 64 and the controls were all new to him. Not that that excuse flew in the face of Rhodey's old school Mario Kart prowess.

' _First and only gaming console I ever bought,'_ Rhodey had told him while wiping an inch of dust off of the bulky system. _'Got it back in '96 so my niece and nephew would have something fun to do when I babysat them. I bet it'd still get the job done.'_

Peter had tried not to scowl at the teasing look that had been sent his way. This wasn't babysitting, Mr. Stark had been clear about that. It was just… companionship for a weekend while he and Ms. Potts were on their honeymoon.

Totally different from babysitting.

Mr. Stark's first choice had been to bring Peter along with them to his vacation house in Hawaii. But Peter, not wanting to impose himself in _every_ aspect of their lives, had refused point blank.

' _You'll love it, kid. We'll get you situated on the beach and get some sun on your pasty self.'_

' _There's sun here too, Mr. Stark.'_

' _No, it just gets hot here. It's not sunny, like the truly relaxing, melt away all your problems with sun beams while you sip on a mocktail, kind of sunny.'_

' _You drink mocktails?'_

' _I do when I'm on vacation with my pregnant wife and kid.'_

' _Forget it, I'm not tagging along on your honeymoon. That's weird.'_

' _We don't have to call it that. It could just be a vacation that we're coincidentally leaving on after Pep and I get hitched.'_

' _That's literally the definition of 'honeymoon'.'_

God, that argument had gone on way longer than it should've. For whatever reason, it had taken a lot to convince Mr. Stark to leave him behind. Privately, Peter had thought that Ms. Potts looked relieved to hear him say _'no'_. Ms. Potts liked him, he was sure of it, but there was a line, and Peter was certain that him crashing their honeymoon was crossing it. Even though it would be a brief trip, and Peter knew that neither Mr. Stark or Ms. Potts were in much of a celebratory mood, he felt that such mile stones and events were no less important now than they were before the snap. Recognizing and participating in them, in spite of everything that had happened just felt right, and Peter would be damned if he was going to mess that up.

Plus, sooner rather than later, Morgan would be here. Peter was no baby expert, but he _did_ know that they were kind of demanding and took up a lot of time. It would be a shame to ruin Mr. Stark's and Ms. Potts' last bit of time alone together.

Upon seeing that his mind was made up, Mr. Stark had changed tactics and insisted that Peter stay with Rhodey for the weekend. He'd agreed immediately much to Mr. Stark's obvious surprise, and Peter supposed that it was unlike him to go along with something like that so easily. It hadn't even crossed his mind to refuse or complain that he would be seventeen soon and didn't need a sitter. Not when the alternative was to be left on his own, completely alone with no one to talk to, for an entire weekend. The idea was… chilling.

So, he'd packed a bag, brought it with him to city hall and put it in Colonel Rhodes' car when he'd met him there. The wedding had been very brief and with only Peter, Dr. Banner, and Colonel Rhodes in attendance. Peter had been surprised to see so few people there. He'd thought that someone in Ms. Potts' family would've come. He tried very hard not to wonder whether the small guest list was a result of too many burnt bridges or vanished ones. It was likely both, but it did no good to dwell on the morbid thought for too long. Afterward he had said his goodbyes to the couple and he had left with Rhodey.

In the hours between then and now, Peter had received no less than three checking-in texts from Mr. Stark. It was mildly irritating to still be present in their moment despite his best efforts not to be, but still he couldn't help the small measure of exasperated fondness that he felt upon seeing each text.

"Ah, there we go, y'did it!"

The whistle sounded as Peter's kart finally crossed the finish line, and the avatars of the characters were ranked from first to last place. Rhodey came in first. Peter came in eighth, which was pretty sad when the game only allowed eight racers. He dropped the controller on the couch cushion next to him and let his head fall against the back of the couch. A dismal sigh escaped him which made Rhodey laugh.

"Don't beat yourself up. I got twenty-two years of experience under my belt." Peter crinkled his nose at Rhodey's somewhat patronizing tone and glanced over to see him fully relaxed into the couch. His tie was loose around his neck (Peter had taken his off the second that they'd left city hall) and his top collar button was open. "When my niece and nephew would visit, they only wanted this and Super Smash Bros all day err day."

"The GameCube was my first console," Peter admitted and he remembered with some fondness how May and Ben had saved up enough money to give to him one for his first birthday with them. "How come you never upgraded? They make Mario Kart and Smash for less archaic consoles, y'know."

"Never saw the point." Rhodey shrugged. "I work all the time, so I don't have much time for it. But as 'fun Uncle James' I couldn't just _not_ have an N64 for my sister's kids to duke it out on." His eyes unfocused as they gazed at the tv, and Peter recognized the contradictory combination of joy and sorrow that came with looking back on an era long since passed. Peter hadn't been there for whatever Rhodey was remembering, but his throat tightened all the same. "Those two were super competitive."

Were.

Peter's stomach dropped. It was possible that he meant _were_ to refer to the kids that they used to be, rather than the adults that they must be by now. _Or they might've vanished_ , his traitorous mind hissed at him. He bit his lip to stop himself from asking which it was. Before, he'd had an insatiable desire to _know_ exactly who was alive and who wasn't. He'd scoured the register of the vanished, searching for names of everyone and anyone that he knew. But now… it was too draining. It might've been selfish for him to admit, but he just couldn't do it anymore. Maybe Rhodey's niece and nephew were alive, maybe they weren't. Peter preferred to think of them as alive, so he did.

Ignoring his tight throat and twisting stomach, Peter leaned forward to grab another slice of pizza from the box on the coffee table. There was already a red spot on his crisp, white sleeve from the sauce. A moment of panic had seized him when it had happened. The suit was brand new and probably insanely expensive since everything that Mr. Stark bought was always the absolute best that money could buy. Peter hadn't even realized that he'd had one made and tailored for him until that morning when he'd laid it out. But then Rhodey had just laughed and asked him if he really thought that Mr. Stark would care about a tomato sauce stain. Being reminded of who they were talking about halted his panic in an instant and made Peter wonder why he was even worried anyway. Mr. Stark had never gotten mad at him for something small like that. In retrospect, it seemed so incredibly stupid that he'd gotten himself so worked up over nothing. A startling revelation passed through his mind, and Peter realized just how frequently his knee-jerk reaction to any sort of disturbance was panic. It was… deeply unsettling to realize that, and not wanting to deal with it at that moment, he put that thought on the shelf too.

The pizza was cold now, and unpleasantly greasy in Peter's hand. He took a bite anyways, just to give himself something to do.

"I almost forgot your name is James," he admitted once he'd swallowed. Rhodey just nodded his head, like he'd expected nothing less.

"I know where I am based off of what people are calling me." Rhodey said as he leaned forward to snag a slice for himself. "If it's 'James', I'm with my family. If it's 'Colonel Rhodes', I'm on base… or in court or talking to government officials or whatever." He waved his hand nonchalantly and the floppy tip of the pizza wobbled. "And if it's 'Rhodey', I'm with Tony or the Avengers crew, or y'know, just friends in general."

Peter smiled as his mind wandered back to his and Mr. Stark's first meeting. He'd rattled off three nicknames for him in under a minute, and all of them had been set to the tune of 'little kid wearing adult's clothes'. At the time he'd been too nervous about having been caught out in a lie to feel properly insulted by the 'little boy' jabs.

"Mr. Stark's got a nickname for everyone, huh," Peter muttered and took another bite. Rhodey's brow lifted.

"He's got a _list_ of names for everyone. It's his life-long passion project. Where've you been?"

"I've only heard him call you 'Rhodey'."

"Good," he said flatly. "The rest of 'em make strangers give us the side-eye."

The laughter that remark pulled out of him was so unexpected that he choked on his food. Coughing – and yet still laughing – Peter's free hand reached around to hold his aching side. Rhodey thumped him on the back a couple times until he could breathe again.

"Don't kill yourself," Rhodey cautioned, and Peter could hear the smile in his voice. "I know my jokes are stellar, but damn, I gotta have you all in one piece when Tony comes back."

Wiping the wetness from his eyes with his non-greasy hand – and determinedly ignoring his hot cheeks – Peter cast him a speculative look. It was kind of amazing that Mr. Stark was so influential and charismatic, not just in the public sphere but in his own private circles, that he could make up names for his friends and have them stick indefinitely. That 'Rhodey' and 'Pepper' could erase almost all recollection of 'James' and 'Virginia', and that the owners of those names seemed to be okay with it.

"I wonder what nicknames he'll come up with for his son," Peter mused before popping the last bit of crust into his mouth and chewing on it thoughtfully. Rhodey's brow furrowed in response.

"You think it'll be a boy?"

The question caught Peter off guard, and he paused mid-chew.

"Is he not a boy?" He asked around a mouthful of bread. He swallowed hard at Rhodey's pointed look. "Mr. Stark always refers to the baby with male pronouns, so I thought he was."

"It's way too soon for a doctor to be able to tell the gender."

"Oh."

Should he have known that? Rhodey had said it like the fact was common knowledge… and maybe it was. It suddenly struck Peter how little he actually knew about babies and pregnancy and all that stuff. Sex Ed at school had basically taught him to use contraceptives to avoid STDs, STIs, and pregnancy (which was sound advice, no complaints there), but nothing really about what came after. Peter was living with a pregnant lady, and soon would be helping to look after a baby. He should know how they develop and how they grew. What to expect from the newborn he'd be living with… and from the baby and toddler that he or she would grow up to be.

' _Your place is here.'_

Mr. Stark had told him that just days ago, and the reassurance warmed him from the inside whenever he was reminded of it; his place in life, and the promise of a future. Peter knew he had a dopey grin on his face, but couldn't be bothered to wipe it off. Not even when Rhodey shot him a curious look.

"Y'know, me, Nat, and Bruce got a bet going for the baby's gender," Rhodey said, jarring Peter from his daze. "You wanna get in on the pool?"

"What?" Peter asked him dumbfounded. "You guys bet on that sort of thing?"

"Sure," Rhodey reached for his drink on the coffee table. "We've been doing it for years. It keeps things interesting and it helps to get to the bottom of some burning questions."

Peter blinked in shock and tried to imagine the Avengers being so friendly with one another. The image that came to mind seemed unbelievable, like staged pictures in a photoshoot. It ran in stark contrasted with what he had actually seen of them; violently fighting one another only to be reunited years later under icy cold tension. The idea that they had been team mates and genuine friends, at one time if not still, brought a smile to Peter's face.

"Like what?"

Rhodey shot him a smirk and took a sip from his glass.

"Like, can anyone else lift Thor's hammer." Peter's eyebrows shot up with unparalleled speed and he swelled up in anticipation of the answer. "We already tested it. No one passed the worthiness test. The hammer's got high standards if you ask me," Rhodey grumbled, and Peter got the impression that the 'test' had resulted in many bruised egos.

"We also had a long-term bet going for what Cap's first curse word would be," Rhodey added casually, swirling his glass before setting it back on the table. Again, Peter found himself on the edge of his seat. "Natasha won that one, but I still say she had an unfair advantage. Being a spy and all, knowing people and what makes them tick is her job description."

"What'd he say?" Peter rushed out, eyes wide in excitement. Rhodey smiled and opened his mouth to respond, but then seemed to reconsider.

"Rogers' potty mouth said something unfit for underage ears."

"Dude, I'm not five!" Peter said indignantly. He could feel his shoulders bunching up as Rhodey stared at him with growing amusement. "C'mon, I thought you're supposed to be 'fun Uncle Rhodey'?"

Peter blurted it out without thinking, and immediately wished that he could take it back. His mouth snapped shut and his mind started to run on a hamster wheel. How could he explain that he didn't mean to imply that Rhodey was _his_ uncle? It was just because they were talking about his niece and nephew before, and Peter was still thinking of them. Yeah, that was it. Peter hadn't meant to be so literal.

But Rhodey was just smiling to himself, completely unfazed by Peter's assertion.

"Hmmm… yeah. Guess I am now," he murmured fondly, and the tense knot in Peter unraveled. "Fine, he called Fury a son of a bitch."

Peter blew out a long breath and deflated in to the couch.

"Wow."

"Yeah. Pretty ballsy stuff," Rhodey agreed. "But, I gotta give it to Cap for having the guts to live out that particular dream. Who hasn't wanted to call their boss a son of a bitch?" Peter laughed at that, though he couldn't relate to it. The only boss he'd ever had was also his guardian, and he'd never been quite that pissed at him. "So you want in on this pot or not? Buy-in is ten bucks."

Peter took a moment to consider it. He wondered briefly if Mr. Stark would be angry to know that his former team mates were making bets about his baby. He honestly couldn't predict whether he would be amused by their antics, angry at their indirect involvement in his life when it was clear that he wanted nothing to do with them, or indifferent to it all. But under Rhodey's waiting gaze, he decided that what he didn't know wouldn't hurt him. He stood up to pull his wallet out of his back pocket.

"I'm still going with boy," he said, smoothing out a crumpled ten on the coffee table and handing it over. Rhodey pocketed it with a smirk.

"We'll see," Rhodey said with a tone that suggested to Peter that he was betting on 'girl'. He sat back down and Rhodey nodded towards the tv. "One more round, or you done for the night?"

"No way! We're gonna play 'til I beat you!" Peter exclaimed, suddenly full of energy and a thirst to prove himself. Rhodey eyed him wearily, and Peter was suddenly reminded who he was with; Rhodey not Ned. Ned could, and had before, stayed up with him until three in the morning playing games. But Rhodey, of course, had his limits. "Or at least until I place seventh," he amended and Rhodey looked relieved.

"Aight, let's do it."

Peter smiled and picked up his own controller, but not before wiping his greasy hands with a napkin. He wasn't a total savage, and there was basic gamer etiquette to follow. Rhodey scrolled through a few options and picked the last tournament. They raced the first track. Then the second and third. Peter did marginally better with each track, and it was looking like he wouldn't have to suffer the humiliation of finishing dead last again. The final track, rainbow road, a multicoloured track suspended in outer space, presented itself and Peter waited for the light to turn green.

The race began, and they'd barely made it over the first hill before Rhodey's kart veered hard to the left and hopped over the star-shaped fence. Luigi's green cap disappeared over the side and fell into outer space.

"Good-bye cruel world?" Peter asked, his eyes darting between his own kart's progress and Rhodey's suicide mission. But then a section of the rainbow track appeared in the distance, growing closer and closer to Luigi's falling kart, and he stuck the landing. "Oh, you gotta be kidding me!" Peter spluttered as Rhodey laughed smugly. Luigi, now much farther ahead than anyone else, raced on. "Not cool," he grumbled, trudging along at his own pace.

Okay, fine, so there was no way that Peter was going to win this round due in part to Rhodey's spectacular bit of cheating, but he could make sure that he didn't come in last again. After a minute of intensely focused silence, the finish line appeared. Peter crossed it entering into the second lap.

"Two can play at that game," he mumbled and veered to the left at the top of the hill.

"No, wait, that's not-" Rhodey said too late as Peter jumped over the star fence. He knew instantly that he had misjudged where the jump off point was as his kart fell deep in to the star speckled abyss. "You flew too close to the sun, buddy."

"Yeah, maybe," Peter begrudgingly agreed as the little flying dude on a cloud flew down, fished his kart out of the void and placed him back on the track. A frown tugged at his face as he realized how far back the stunt had set him. So much for not placing last.

"Y'gotta put in the hours. Can't cheat the game 'til you know the game."

Peter sighed as he urged his little kart on. It was pointless now. There was no way he was going to win, but still he carried on.

"Guess I'll just have to learn," he conceded, trailing along pathetically after everyone who had surpassed him.

* * *

That night, Peter lay in the bed in Rhodey's guest room. The sheets were starchy and uncomfortable, like they were brand new out of the package. Or had been sitting in the linen cupboard for too long. He wondered when was the last time anyone had slept in them. The glow from his phone illuminated the dark room as he scrolled through his phone. Obtaining the WiFi password from Rhodey had been… enlightening.

' _Really? You Millennials can't go one night without your phone, huh?'_

' _Actually, I'm Gen Z.'_

A bit of an awkward pause had followed, and Peter had worried that the correction had offended him in some way. But then, with a sigh, Rhodey had caved and given him the password.

' _War Machine forever, all caps, no spaces, 'for' like the number four and 'ever' like e-v-a.'_

He couldn't help but laugh at that, and to his credit, Rhodey had taken it in stride. After making Peter promise to not tell Mr. Stark about it, and Peter assuring him that he took password security very seriously, he'd rubbed a tired hand over his eyes and gone to bed. Peter, alone in the guest room, had taken great pleasure in typing 'WARMACHINE4EVA' into the password field.

With that done, he had begun his nightly routine: reading up about what was happening in the world.

It was deeply unhealthy to do this to himself, Peter knew that, and yet he couldn't make himself stop completely. He had tried to strike a balance by cutting back the amount of time he spent pouring over various media sources, but it was almost like an addiction. Even as things in his own life settled in to a comfortable routine of stability, he still had the need to find out how the rest of the world had been affected by the snap. Every night, without fail, he'd scroll through articles that illustrated the irrevocable change in the world; On a larger scale, falling infrastructures and over taxed services, on a smaller scale, devastating human interest stories. It felt surreal to know that he had been there, involved in the world changing event that had reshaped every aspect of daily life.

Peter's eyes skimmed over article titles, each one prompting new questions that he had never thought to consider. One published in a Canadian newspaper caught his eye:

' _Ontario Court Rules in Favour of Family of Vanished Life Insurance Claimant.'_

Oh, shit.

Without needing to click on the article, Peter could already foresee that the outcome of this would result in life insurance companies being bankrupted from the massive number payouts that they were obligated to make. He opened the article anyway, out of a sense of morbid curiosity, and sure enough he was right. The court case in question, _Adler v. Shielded Life Financial_ , was lynch-pinned on two points: if the vanished could be considered 'dead', and whether or not the manner of death of those who vanished in the snap adhered to their life insurance policies. The final ruling demanded that the Adler family be paid the full payout immediately, and Peter wondered how long it would be before similar cases came up and overwhelmed the company. It was staggering to consider how many insurance companies would go under because of this.

Because of the thing that he'd been involved in.

Endless consequences had been set in motion that day in May. Surviving it and witnessing the perpetual effects of that one action was like watching dominoes fall while lying on ground level. Without an aerial view, he couldn't see the sprawling pattern that they would create. He could only see the twists and turns as they fell.

At first, the helplessness that came with watching the world face an onslaught of crises had infuriated him because it had felt as though he was wasting time. Sitting on his bed, watching through his phone as the world reshape itself out of necessity, and knowing that he should be doing _something_ if only he could see the changes coming. If only he could have warning and time to plan before it was upon him.

The day that he had realized that his usefulness was limited had been simultaneously humbling and liberating. Realizing his own mediocrity was a difficult pill to swallow, but to be released from his own expectation that he fix… well, everything, was like escaping drowning and breathing that first breath of air. He didn't know why he had ever gotten it into his head that he _could_ fix this. There was just so much of it everywhere. It extended in every direction, father than Peter could possibly perceive.

That's why, when he saw Dr. Banner at Mr. Stark's wedding, he hadn't felt compelled to seize the opportunity and bombard him with every question that he had thought of since he last saw him. Indeed, he had thought of many. He had taken weeks, stealing moments between studying for his school entrance exams and living in Mr. Stark's company, to fully immerse himself in Dr. Foster's various works on Einstein-Rosen Bridges; Portals that used the power of the space stone. It was the closest thing he could find to research about the infinity stones on Earth. Well, research that was in the public domain anyway. SHIELD had surely squirreled away much more research, all of it under lock and key.

Finding out that Jane Foster had been among those to vanish had set barely containable panic ablaze deep within him. Her family and friends had lost her as a person, but the world had lost the leading expert in space magic (not that that was her official title or anything, but Peter thought it was accurate). She was one of the few who might've had a chance at restoring those lost. That was just one more hope blown out like a match in the wind.

Upon seeing Dr. Banner again, Peter did feel the initial spark of panic and desperation. A million questions had bubbled up to the surface and there were so many theories that Peter had wanted to discuss with him.

But all those questions and theories had died in his throat when he saw the way that Mr. Stark looked at Ms. Potts. She looked beautiful in her wedding dress, a part of Peter's brain had acknowledged that when he had first seen her in it, but Mr. Stark looked at her like she was the focal point of his world. Peter had seen glimpses of the adoration that was pouring off of him during his time living with them, but he could see now how it had been concealed, but never diminished, by the fast-pace bustle of their lives. And maybe also Peter's presence. He knew that Mr. Stark made an effort to not appear too sappy in front of him. But this was their wedding day, and Mr. Stark made no attempt made to censure his love for his wife.

An intense realization had struck Peter in that moment. One that had caused him to swallow all of his questions and needling. This day would never happen again. It was a shining moment in time, one of heartfelt significance for the couple, and the thought of spoiling it made Peter physically cringe. He reminded himself of who _he_ was, and the extent of his capability, and it just didn't make any sense to drag all of this back up when it would ruin a perfect day.

He'd let it go. It was a fight to be fought on another day, he'd told himself. With surprising ease, he'd moved on. Or at least, he'd contained his curiosity for when he was alone.

Scrolling further down in the news feed, another headline jumped out at Peter:

' _A Nation within a Nation: Norway Cedes Land to Asgardians'._

Peter had never met Thor, but he wasn't ignorant to the situation involving him and his people. They had come out of the fight worse off than most other groups of people, having lost many in the destruction of Asgard and again when Thanos attacked. And then the surviving population had been halved by the snap. Those who'd survived were homeless, but maybe not anymore.

' _The Prime minister of Norway, Bjørn Olsen, put forth a proposition to the cabinet on June 5_ _th_ _to cede a reservation of land to the surviving Asgardian population, who arrived on Earth on May 12_ _th_ _. The municipality of Tønsberg in Southern Norway, spanning 102 square kilometers, will be renamed 'New Asgard'. Abandoned since HYDRA's massacre of the village on March 9_ _th_ _1942, Tønsberg will be repopulated with Asgardians seeking asylum on Earth. In a public statement, Prime Minister Olsen expressed his sincerest hopes that New Asgard "… will serve as a new home for the legendary figures, once thought of as Gods, whose lives and experiences with us have done so much to shape our cultural identity."'_

Peter's eyes widened as he paused his reading to process what that all meant. That was… unbelievably generous of the Norwegian government to permit, and also totally unexpected. Peter could feel a smile warm over his face. His eyes skimmed over the rest of the article, glossing over the sentimental stuff and searching for the details of how 'a nation within a nation' would operate. Much to Peter's annoyance, the relevant information was mentioned in a short paragraph near the end:

'… _went on to clarify that New Asgard will govern itself as a sovereign nation under the rule of King Thor Odinson, thereby granting Asgardians governance over their own lives within their own borders without interference from the Norwegian government. However, outside of New Asgard's borders, Asgardians will be subjected to the Norwegian law.'_

Huh. A postage stamp sovereign nation operating within a much larger democratic one. That had potential to be either a great partnership or a relentless struggle of power.

_Think positive,_ he ordered himself. This was the first bit of news he'd seen that was good. It made him hopeful (and what a wonderfully dangerous thing that was) that the world might be changing, but not in exclusively terrible ways.

* * *

Two days later, Mr. Stark and Ms. Potts had returned from their honeymoon, and life fell back into the pattern that Peter had grown accustom to.

A few days after that, Peter found himself slumped on his bed with his laptop resting on his duvet. He was researching again, but this time he really wished that he hadn't started down this particular rabbit hole. The scientist in him had sought out answers, and he had gone after them not knowing what was in store for him. Researching had always been a relatively harmless past-time. Sometimes the thing he found out took him a little out of his comfort zone, but as he stared at a short, thirty second video of a CGI unborn baby developing in a CGI lady's body, he suddenly longed for the days when he was happily unaware of how godawful pregnancy was.

Sure, he had known before that pregnancy and child birth were hard, but he had never really needed to think about the details before. He had never known anyone who was pregnant, and with that distance came a welcomed sort of ignorance. Pregnancy, as he had understood it, was uncomfortable and then painful when the actual labour happened. But the evidence before Peter would suggest that this whole thing was just misery start to finish.

That CGI lady's organs were smooshed in a way that would be classified as a medical emergency if the offending smoosher were not also a baby. In those wonderful bygone days, Peter hadn't realized the extent of the organ smooshing that occurred. Honestly, he'd been better off not knowing. That was a simpler time, back when he was under the delusion that pregnancy was just 'kinda hard'. He couldn't stand to look at the image anymore, and with one hand he reached over to snap the laptop shut. For good measure, he pushed it a little further away from him.

How were there still people in the world? For a moment, Peter marveled at how the human race hadn't gone extinct since the invention of birth control. Not all, but many chose to do this to themselves on purpose, and Peter couldn't fathom the thought process that went in to wanting this. Yeah, okay, babies were cute, but to get there you had to go through all sorts of hellish body wrecking. The mystery was how anyone could look past that initial off-putting fact to get to the cute baby part of it.

He should do something nice for Ms. Potts. He wasn't sure what the thing would be, nothing seemed big enough to compensate for the pain she was going to go through, but _damn_ … all Peter knew was that she deserved more than what she currently had. He was so wrapped up in that thought, he barely noticed Mr. Stark knocking at his door.

"Hey, Kid-" He said as he walked in the room, cutting himself off abruptly when he caught sight of Peter's face. "You alright? You're lookin' a little green around the gills."

Peter coughed and tried to rearrange his features into something less blatantly sickened.

"Yep. Totally fine."

That was unconvincing, even he could hear it, but he kept his fake-ass smile in place, silently urging Mr. Stark not to pry. Mr. Stark's brow furrowed and his eyes darted between Peter and the laptop sitting two feet away from him.

"Uh-huh," he muttered, and Peter tensed under his scrutiny. It lasted for a second, before the suspicion smoothed over. Mr. Stark rolled his eyes and made a beckoning motion with his hand. "Come on, Sticky Fingers, I got a chore for you."

Peter rose to his feet, eager to go along with anything to get him out of this awkward situation. He approached Mr. Stark, who held out his hand to reveal the small bits of metal that he held in it. They were nondescript L-shaped brackets fashioned out of sleek metal. A teeny tiny light bulb was nestled in the bend, and Peter guessed that it would light up once whatever-these-things-were became activated. Mr. Stark placed two of them in Peter's hand and tipped his chin towards one of the tall windows.

"They'll self-adhere to the drywall around the window, just put them in the top two corners."

Hmmm… so probably a security system of some sort. Before Mr. Stark had bought the apartment, the manager had stipulated in the contract that he wasn't permitted to rip up the wiring in the building. Peter found that to be a fair request, but since that meant that FRIDAY couldn't be hardwired into the building, Mr. Stark had deemed it entirely unacceptable. It had been funny at first to hear Mr. Stark begin to ask: _'Hey, FRI, dim the-'_ or _'FRIDAY, when is the-'_ , only to cut himself off when he remembered that the AI wasn't installed here. Peter had wondered when was the last time that he had lived without an AI present, but had tactfully decided to keep that question to himself. He'd also thought that it spoke volumes to Mr. Stark's reputation that the manager had decided to include such an oddly specific stipulation without an prompting.

Slipping the two brackets in to his pocket, Peter climbed up the wall with ease.

"You know you can buy a home security system, right?"

He pressed one bracket in to the top-right corner, and the light lit up a small speck of green.

"Correction, I can buy an annoying piece of subpar tech that beeps every time the doors and windows open," Peter glanced down at Mr. Stark, who stared back at him with a somewhat insulted air, as though he were offended that Peter suggest that any other tech could compare to his own. "That's the beauty of having an AI, kid. FRIDAY screens these sorts of things and alerts me urgently if there's _actually_ an intruder, and non-urgently when my kid's got the late night jitters and has decided that doors are too mainstream."

Peter froze, the second bracket in his hand hovering a few inches away from its corner. Lately, he had taken to sneaking out through his bedroom window. He was never gone for long, and he left with no real purpose in mind. He wasn't Spider-Man anymore, but the open air called to him all the same. And the height helped to clear his mind when he couldn't sleep. Also, he would be lying if he didn't admit that he found that being off the grid, at least for a little while, with no one knowing where he was or being able to check up on him was deeply satisfying.

"You know about that, huh?" He tried to keep the guilt out of his voice, but his attempt at nonchalance was in vain.

"Sure do."

Peter pressed the bracket in to the corner and saw the light flicker on. With the task completed, he decided to remain stuck on the wall. He was about a foot over Mr. Stark's head, and he liked the idea of keeping a little distance between them. At least until he could gage how pissed he was. Glancing back down, Peter could see Mr. Stark looking up at him with poorly concealed irritation.

"Fun fact:," he continued, toying with the remaining brackets in his hand. "Rebellious teenagers are the leading cause of grey hair in men over forty. Now, me personally, I think I could rock the silver fox look better than most, but I would also appreciate it if you didn't turn me grey before my time."

Peter breathed out a long breath that he'd been holding. Okay, so he was only minimally angry. Like maybe a 3.5 or 4/10. That wasn't bad.

"Yeah, okay, that's reasonable," he muttered, releasing one of his hand to scratch at the back of his neck.

"I thought so," Mr. Stark said scathingly and Peter's cheeks flush.

"I'll let you know whenever I leave the apartment."

"No, see, you don't have to," Mr. Stark sighed, frustration lacing every syllable. "That's why we're installing these little patchwork FRIDAYs in the windows and front door, so you don't have to report all your comings-and-goings to me. Keep up." Peter's flush darkened, and Mr. Stark's eyes became more serious, without entirely losing their flippant candor. "I got no interest in being the warden around here, so I figure this is a good compromise. You can keep up your nightly wanderings so long as I know when you leave and when you come back."

Peter blinked, surprised at how easily he'd gotten off the hook. When May had caught him sneaking out she'd gone completely nuclear on him. There'd been much more swearing involved… and yelling… and then a month of being grounded. But then again, she'd also caught him in his spider suit thereby catching him exposed in his double life. So perhaps context was important here.

"You two want ice cream?" Ms. Potts' voice floated in from the kitchen, completely derailing Peter's train of thought. He jumped off of the wall and landed in a crouch on the floor.

"Yes, please!" he said a bit louder than he had intended and hurried out the door. Behind him, he could hear Mr. Stark laughing, but he was incapable of curbing his enthusiasm even if he had wanted to.

In the kitchen, Ms. Potts stood beside the island. Three bowls sat on the marble top; two empty and one with ice cream already scooped in it. She smirked at him as he climbed up on one of the stools and she handed him the full bowl.

Oh, so she had anticipated that he would say 'yes'. Was he really _that_ predictable? Or maybe… she just knew, because she _knew_ Peter. Warmth bloomed in his chest, causing him to smile down at his bowl.

Beside him, Mr. Stark slid on to a stool and pulled the container of ice cream and a bowl towards himself.

"And I got strawberries, too," Ms. Potts added, pulling a clear plastic container out of a grocery bag and setting it on the counter. Peter's grin broadened.

"Thanks-" _Ms. Potts_ , he finished silently, catching himself before he said her maiden name aloud. Instead, his sentence halted unnaturally, and Ms. Potts shot him a sympathetic look that made his heart clench. He was aware that she was Mrs. Stark now. If they were meeting for the first time, he would call her that, but he was familiar with her maiden name. It was… incorrect to call her that now, so he didn't. She had said at the wedding that Peter could call her 'Pepper' if he wanted. He didn't call her that either because… he didn't want to. He couldn't explain why he felt comfortable calling Colonel Rhodes 'Rhodey', but not Ms. Potts 'Pepper'. He just didn't. Instead, he avoided calling her by any name. And Ms. Potts, for her part, pretended not to notice.

"No problem," She said cheerily with a smile that made Peter's heart twinge with guilt. "You two are working hard, and what is summer without strawberries and ice cream?"

Peter's smile slipped in to a confused frown. He looked between Ms. Potts and the strawberries.

"But you're allergic to strawberries," he said hesitantly, as if trying to gently remind her of that fact. Ms. Potts' smile turned positively _smug_ as she turned her attention to Mr. Stark. Peter glanced at the man beside him just in time to see his eyes roll.

"My God, Pep, that was almost ten years ago. Let it go."

What?

Peter knew that he was missing something – this was like the 12% thing all over again- but before he could ask what they were talking about, Ms. Potts sent her husband a jovial wink and turned her attention back to Peter.

"You're right, I am allergic," She said, taking the ice cream container from Mr. Stark and trading him for the container of strawberries. "I'm just sticking to ice cream."

"Jeez, these are _huge_ ," Mr. Stark exclaimed and Peter looked closer at the container. His eyes widened at the sight of the massive strawberries inside. Rather than many normal sized berries, four gigantic ones took up all the space in the box. The largest was the size of his fist, and all of them were perfectly red without any hint of white or green. Peter had never seen strawberries so close to perfection, and his mouth began to water. "Who grew these? André the Giant? He got a fruit stand on the side of the road?"

"Isn't he dead?" Peter asked. His brow furrowed as he tried to remember. "I thought he died, like, decades ago."

"Don't go poking holes in my jokes, kid."

Peter's smile ticked up at Mr. Stark's irritation.

"What joke?" he asked with mock seriousness. "I don't want these anymore if they were grown ghost-to-table. I've read that hauntings are like ant infestations once you invite them in."

"What weird corners of the deep web do you visit, kid?"

"They were all that big at every grocery store that I went to." Ms. Potts said a little louder, speaking over the banter. She passed Mr. Stark a knife and small cutting board.

"Really?" Peter asked in disbelief. Mr. Stark started slicing up the fist-sized strawberry and Peter eyed it with fascination.

"Yeah, I know. Crazy, right?" Peter nodded in agreement, absolutely mesmerized by the sheer amount of juice seeping out of each slice. "All the produce at the store looks amazing, and these are the best-looking strawberries I've ever seen in my life, so I had to buy them." Peter's heart leaped with joy as Mr. Stark tipped the cutting board and used the knife to sweep the whole berry in to Peter's bowl. He was so enraptured by the way the juice was mingling with the vanilla ice cream, he didn't notice the contemplative frown on Mr. Stark's face. "I can appreciate them from afar," Ms. Potts added, prodding her ice cream with a spoon to better soften it.

Without hesitating a moment longer, Peter scooped up one of the slices – it balanced precariously on his spoon, it's size completely dwarfing it – with a bit of ice cream and shoveled it into his mouth. It was sweet and tangy, just like all strawberries were, but somehow _more_ , with flavor that was amplified to nearly intoxicating heights.

"S'okay," Peter mumbled through his full mouth. "I'll 'ppreciate 'em enough for da bof of us."

Ms. Potts gave him a funny look, but he was too far gone in his bliss to care about deciphering its meaning.

"I've always considered my allergy as a mild annoyance. Just something that is what it is," she said, propping her chin on her fist and eyeing Peter strangely. "I never resented it until now."

Mr. Stark laughed as he cut up a second berry.

"Getting jealous, are we?"

Ms. Potts shrugged and continued to watch Peter eat. He was starting to feel a bit self-conscious under her gaze, but his mouth was too full to protest.

"I just want a piece of whatever makes this kid smile brighter than a thousand-watt bulb."

Mr. Stark hummed in agreement and turned his attention on to Peter as well.

"He puts Edison to shame, that's for sure."

Ms. Potts' eyes twinkled with mirth. Peter bristled under the pair's teasing, though he sure why. They were teasing him about being _too_ happy, and that could never be a bad thing.

"M'not deaf," he grumbled, trying to keep the whining out of his voice and being somewhat successful.

"No one's saying that you are," Mr. Stark said and turned his attention back to his sliced strawberry. "But even you gotta admit, you're a man of simple pleasures. It doesn't take much to make you happy."

Peter paused his chewing, his eyes becoming shadowed. A pit appeared in place of his stomach, and it ached for only a moment before he decided fastidiously to not allow himself to fall in. He refused to become consumed by the unintentional carelessness of such an innocuous statement. Mr. Stark hadn't meant anything by it, and he focused on that. Instead he rearranged his features into something more light hearted.

"Did you just call me a man?"

"So the saying goes," he flapped a hand dismissively and scooped up a piece of strawberry. "It rolls off the tongue better than 'boy of simple pleasures', though that's more accurate in your case." He bit into the berry, and Peter watched with immense satisfaction as his eyebrows flew up in surprise. "Shit, that _is_ good."

Peter snorted into his ice cream as Ms. Potts swatted Mr. Stark's arm and told him to _'watch his language'_. Like it mattered. Peter was nearly seventeen and had heard much worse things. It was ridiculous how often he had to remind others of this. But then his eyes drifted to Ms. Potts' stomach, which was starting to become visibly swollen, and he remembered that someday it would matter to someone else.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Btw, it was really difficult to come up with a legitimate sounding but fake life insurance company name. I swear all the companies that exist are some combination of 'sun, liberty, life, financial, insure, or secure'. Snap together two or three of those words and there's a good chance that company already exists.


	12. The Little Guy

In the last couple of weeks of July, Peter's feet got an insatiable itch to roam. Sometimes he left the conventional way, by the door, calling a quick _'see ya later!'_ over his shoulder as he went and barely pausing long enough to hear Mr. Stark's or Ms. Potts' reply. During those times, his wanderings had a purpose; mapping out the Upper East Side. Every second, was packed with so much information. He would become hyper focused, committing new streets to memory. Every day, he found new landmarks and familiarized himself with a variety of new paths and short cuts.

The walks were silent, but his mind was never idle so he didn't mind. In fact, this was one of the only times that he could think of where he preferred solitude to company. On occasion he would bump in to someone and mutter a polite _'sorry'_ that was met with vacant eyes. His _'sorry'_ was very rarely returned. Sometimes glassy eyes stared at him like he was a thousand miles away. Rarer still, he would bump into someone who would explode on him in an over the top screaming fit that was completely disproportionate to his offense. So, he avoided people because… well, one step at a time.

Other times, Peter would put Mr. Stark's patchwork FRIDAY to the test and sneak out through his window. He supposed that he couldn't actually call it sneaking since Mr. Stark had given him his permission, but still something compelled him to leave quietly and return just as silently.

He left whenever the emptiness set in, and the need for movement commanded his body. Sometimes those times came at a reasonable hour, but more often than not, they came at a time that could be considered either late at night or early in the morning.

The first night that he had climbed out his window past midnight, his first thought had been that May would've never allowed this. His second thought had been to tell the first to shut up, because it didn't matter that she would've had a brain aneurysm if she were here. She wasn't, and neither was her strict eleven o'clock curfew. The same curfew that she'd said wasn't to be broken for any reason other than ' _earthquakes, tsunamis, falling meteorites, or maiming. I'm serious, Peter, if your late coming home for anything short of the rapture, I'll kill you'_.

Mr. Stark never enforced a curfew.

Admittedly, that first night that Peter had climbed back through his window at way-too-late o'clock at night, he had been bracing himself for… well, he wasn't sure what exactly. Having never lived with the man before, he wasn't sure if he was a ' _wait in a dark room for the return and flick on a lamp for maximum dramatic effect before the evisceration commences'_ kind of a guy or if he was more of a ' _we'll talk about this in the morning'_ sort of a dude. But he had been anticipating… something.

Climbing into his room, expecting punishment but being met with no one should have been relieving. He had dodged a bullet, hadn't he? And true to what he'd said before, Mr. Stark hadn't been there to lay down the law.

And yet, incomprehensibly, a knot had tightened in his chest. A headache had built dully behind his eyes, growing in intensity as time passed, and for many hours after he'd paced the carpeted floor of his room. He couldn't remember ever being so blindsided by such an unreasonable reaction, but as he paced, mind whirling and palms pressed to his flushed cheeks, he willed his anger away because it had no place here and no reason for being.

Every nightly stroll after that had felt more like escaping, even though Peter didn't want to think of it that way. On nights like that, he'd venture out his bedroom window with stifling restlessness to carry him across rooftops and fire escapes. There was never any particular destination in mind, nor any purpose to fulfill other than to get out and be away for as long as possible.

It was a change, he explained to himself, that was all. he'd never seen this side of Mr. Stark before. The side that had shockingly few house rules and didn't seem to care how Peter spent his time or where. It was just another thing to adapt to, and he would. It'd all be fine.

So, Peter came and went as he pleased, and Mr. Stark never mentioned a word about it.

By the end of July, Peter had wandered through nearly all of the Upper East Side. Cramming years of exploring into a couple weeks, it was as if he'd lived there all his life. It had been exciting at first. Every day, there was something new to find. He would stumble across cafés, some of which were still open for business, and he could see himself taking MJ to them if she were here. Another day he'd come across an abandoned arcade that he and Ned definitely would've blown obscene amounts of money in. Once he'd caught his reflection in the store front of a super elegant shoe store, and he could almost see May next to him drooling over six-inch tall, sling-back stilettos that her arthritic toes wouldn't have been able to wear anyway.

If he pretended like those scenarios were still possible, he found that the ache in his chest nearly disappeared. It became sort of enjoyable, mapping out an imagined future in a new city for his closest people. It was like a vacation that was forever in the planning stages, never to be executed.

When the novelty of a new city wore off, Peter was surprised to feel pangs of homesickness sneaking up on him. He'd thought he had left that all behind him, that night when he and Mr. Stark had a heart-to-heart hashing out of what life looked like now. But then, with increasing frequency, Peter's mind would wander back to school, back to his old apartment, back to _Queens_ , and his stomach would bottom out under the weight of his longing for the unattainable.

His last visit to Queens had been disastrous. He had left his old apartment with his meager possessions, crying and angry and feeling completely humiliated to be experiencing those things under Mr. Stark's sympathetic gaze. On the car ride back to their hotel room he'd sworn to himself that he'd never go back there again.

Life was funny like that, he supposed. Life had also paused its merciless barrage of gut punches long enough for Peter to actually laugh about it.

It was then, on the cusp of August, that Peter made a desperate attempt to ride himself of such useless misery. He decided to return to Queens, leaving the apartment in the late afternoon the second the notion entered his head, before his courage could fail him and he could change his mind.

Public transport was newly back up and running again, so leaping stealthily from rooftop to rooftop, Peter's feet took him to the nearest subway station. He hopped a train, took one of the many available seats, and tried to ignore the unease that came with being in a place that should be crowded but wasn't anymore.

It took some focus to get back home. He'd never traveled via subway from this direction to get to Queens, and he nearly forgot to change train lines. Eventually, he stepped out of the station that was closest to his school, and took in the sight before him.

It was a mess with minimal improvements since the last time he'd been there. The buildings and windows in the area were just as broken and vandalized as they were in June. Ugly spray paint tags remained where they had been before, although they'd become faded from a couple months of weathering. Peter could stand to look at them now. He didn't flinch from them like he had before, nor did his throat twist in to knots. They were just… there. Dripping anarchy 'A's and silhouettes blending into the urban setting just as traffic lights and street signs did.

Peter gave the street one last sweeping look before setting off down the sidewalk. He followed old pathways without thinking about them. Walking beside his school, he followed the perimeter of the fence and took in the sight of his school. Midtown had always been a tad bit too rich for his blood. May and Ben had worked hard to pay his tuition, and Peter had tried to pay them back in good grades. There was no denying that the school was meant for, at least the upper middle class if not higher. For such a clean-cut school, it was disturbing to see it so ragged.

There were the usual smashed windows, now hastily boarded up with plywood, and the area had been swept up for glass shards. Some doors remained broken, while others had obviously been replaced. Those things made it typical of its setting in this new reality. Slowing his pace, Peter watched maintenance workers leaving and entering through those new doors carrying tools and materials. He had to come back here in less than a week to write his entrance exam, and Peter supposed that it looked patched up enough to accommodate that. He wondered vaguely how the building would look when it reopened full time in September.

Turning the last corner of the perimeter, the football field's goal posts came into view. The field below them had tall, unkempt grass which somehow remained a lush green colour in spite of the heat wave bearing down on it. Hidden among the tall blades, Peter could see a shoe here and there sunken in the field and creating little pock marks in the grass. He could imagine them falling off of running feat and turned over ankles as students stampeded, stumbled, and fell across this very field. Peter's own confusion and horror at watching people crumble into ash was nothing in comparison to this. Midtown held around two thousand students, all of them trapped in a building, watching classmates vanish and feeding off of each other's escalating panic. Not knowing what to do or where to go, but sprinting in a blind panic away from an inevitable fate.

Turning on his heel, Peter walked in the opposite direction, leaving the school behind. He wished he could leave his thoughts behind too, but they lingered with him turning his dark mood even grimmer.

He took a turn at random and came upon a bodega that he had seen many times but never actually been inside of before. Passing by familiar landmarks, he idly cataloged in his head which establishments were still open and which had been abandoned.

He saw people, _his people_ , many of whom he'd never met before but only knew from sight. In a park, the same old 'fedora hat and cane guy' sat on his bench. Peter was fairly sure that he suffered from some sort of vision impairment, given how tightly he would grip the elbow of the old woman who would accompany him everywhere. She wasn't with him now and the man sat alone. Peter tried not to read too deeply into that.

Near a bus stop, Peter saw a twenty-something hipster-looking woman with pink streaked hair. She frequented the subway on his morning commute to school and played music on her headphones at a volume that only he could hear. Through consistent, albeit unwanted, daily exposure, Peter's tolerance of death metal had grown from _'nails on a chalkboard'_ to _'meh'_. She made eye contact with him, and Peter saw a tiny smile tug at her face. She tilted her chin up in a nod, as if to say _'Hey, you're still alive? Me too. How about that?'_

Peter didn't know what to say to that, so he remained silent. Having never spoken a word to her in his life, it felt apropos. Instead, he gave her a little wave as he passed.

More blocks passed by, and Peter took stock of the neighbourhood, when suddenly the hiss of an aerosol can hit his ears. The sound made him pause and look around for the culprit. _'Vandalism is illegal,'_ he thought, but almost as soon as the thought had crossed his mind, he dismissed it. Someone was angry and needed to vent. If spray-painting some stupid tag was their way of doing it, who was Peter to judge? _And besides_ , he thought with a glance at the other tags dotting the street, _what was another drop in the bucket?_

Peter trudged on, and he managed to walk ahead a few more steps before realizing with alarm why he recognized this area so well; He was going to Ned's apartment. The thought struck him like a blow, making him halt in his tracks. His eyes slid closed and he took a deep breath.

' _Not today,'_ he thought. Two months ago, he would've thought _'not ever'_ , but here he was standing in Queens again. Time, as it turned out, could heal a lot of things if Peter permitted it to. Mr. and Mrs. Leeds were still alive, and maybe one day he would visit them. But it was too soon for him, and probably too soon for Ned's parents. Peter really couldn't blame them if they were devastated by the fact that he was alive while their son wasn't. Grief had a way of pulling out all of the worst things in a person, and Peter didn't want to show up too soon and find out what those 'worst things' were for them.

"Hey, c'mon man, leave me alone!"

A high voice rang out from an ally that Peter had just passed. The voice warbled with fear and desperation in that unmistakable way that indicate that there was no escape. Without thinking, Peter turned and ran back the way he'd came.

" _Leave me alone!_ " A deeper voice mimicked in a falsetto. There was cruel laughter, and then the sound of knuckles on skin came before a pained grunt. Peter whipped himself around the corner and saw a boy pinned against the wall. Another boy around Peter's own age, towered over him with his fist pulling back for another blow.

"Get away from him!" Peter shouted, never breaking his sprint towards the bully. There was only a split second where the pair looked at him with identical shocked expressions. The bully's fist halted but remained suspended in mid-air. Blood was flowing freely out of the kid's nose, running over his dark skin and dripping off of his upper lip. The sight of it enraged Peter even more, and he didn't bother to try and hinder himself to appear more normal.

In a second, he was tackling the bully to the ground. To Peter's surprise, he didn't try to fight back. Once Peter had gotten off of him, he'd shifted his weight solidly between his feet and prepared himself for a fight. But the bully just scrambled to his feet, wide-eyed and visibly shaken, and took off running.

Peter blinked, surprised at how anticlimactic that was. Was that initial confrontation really all it took to get him to back off? Flash had never beaten him up, instead preferring to bully him with his words. Still, would he have stopped if someone had stood up for Peter? He watched the bully disappear around the corner, and only then could Peter relax his stance. Hands dropping to his sides, he turned to look at the boy behind him.

"Hey, are you okay?" he asked while his eyes swept over his slight form. He was young, maybe ten-or-so years old, and wearing clothes that were a size or two too big for him. He was crouched on the pavement as the strength seemed to have vanished from his legs. At his feet was a backpack with spray paint cans in varying colours spilling out of it. At Peter's question, he looked up shyly and Peter's stomach knotted.

His nose was the worst of his injuries. Blood splattered his t-shirt, but thankfully the nose looked to still be intact. Looking closely, he could see old bruises starting to heal and blend into his darker complexion. Peter reached his hand down to help the boy up, but his eyes narrowed at the offered hand and he slapped it out of the way.

"M'fine, it's no big deal," the boy muttered, his embarrassment palpable, and he stood up on his own. His voice came out thick sounding from the blood and his eyes glistened with pained tears, but there was also a defiant edge lurking under it all. He lifted the collar of his baggy t-shirt to mop at his nose and he winced slightly under the pressure. Peter cringed, having dealt with his fair share of injuries, he knew just how badly that must've hurt. "That guy's just an asshole."

"You know him?" Peter asked and the boy nodded carefully. The stain on his shirt was growing larger by the second. "Pinch your nose on the cartilage. It'll help," he advised while grasping his own nose briefly between his thumb and forefinger to demonstrate. The boy reached his hand up and mimicked the action, taking hold of the bridge of his broad nose. After a few moments, the bleeding started to slow and Peter smiled.

"We used to live in the same foster home, but now we don't," the boy elaborated in a nasal voice. "He likes to beat up the littler kids, steal their stuff, whatever."

"Oh."

Peter wasn't sure of what else to say. His curiosity was sparked and he wanted to ask more, but it seemed callous to press him. Some puzzle pieces slotted into place; It was possible that the bully had recently lost his family in the snap, just as many other kids had. Not that his loss justified his behavior, but Peter thought he could see how it might shape a person to be like that. It was grief, a different side of it this time, pulling out all of his worst traits.

There was more to this, he thought. They were out in the streets, not in his old foster home, the space that they'd been forced to share. There was some deep-rooted malice there if he chose to go out of his way to terrorize the kid outside of that home.

"But you don't live with him anymore," he prompted, curiosity getting the better of him. "So…?"

"My uncle adopted me, but he lives close to the foster home," his face twisted into a scowl that Peter thought was in response to his circumstances. His heart twinged in empathy, but then he realized that the face he was making was out of disgust, not bitterness. The boy gingerly let go of his nose and spat the last of the blood that had run down his sinuses on to the ground. Peter grimaced as the boy scrubbed absentmindedly at the dried blood above his lip. "I thought it'd be all good when my uncle came to take me away, but now _he_ comes for me whenever he sees me out in the streets. I'm pretty sure dude stakes out my house too."

Peter's brows shot up and worry twisted in his gut. Damn, this was like some Stephan King levels of psycho-bully behavior.

"Why?" The question fell from Peter's mouth, and he wasn't even sure if he meant it rhetorically or not. The boy just shrugged and leveled him with a stare too serious for his age.

"He's just jealous," he said, like it was obvious. When Peter stopped to think about it, he supposed it was. "I got people and he doesn't. Also, I was the only one in that house that had someone come back for them, so y'know… probably doesn't help."

"Does he do this sort of thing a lot?"

The boy's gaze turned flat, and Peter realized, too late, how stupid that question was. The old bruises were answer enough. He pressed his lips together into a hard line as the ball of stress in his gut intensified.

What if he came back? Sure, Peter had scared him off this time, but what if it wasn't enough to keep him away permanently? It's not like he could hang around Queens all the time, waiting for the off chance the bully started trouble again. Peter's mind scrambled, trying to come up with a solution to protect this kid but came up short. His cheeks puffed up as he blew out an aggravated sigh and he ran a hand through his hair.

He guessed that he could only make sure that he made it home safe. It was all he could do.

"Here, lemme walk you home," he said, offering up his weak solution, and the boy looked at him strangely.

"What? No," he scoffed and took a step back. "Dude, I don't know you."

A wry smile pulled at Peter's mouth. For a moment he stewed on how unfair it was that he was too young to enjoy any of the perks of being an adult, but was apparently old enough to have strayed into the realm of 'potential stranger-danger weirdos' if he were to be his usual overly helpful self.

"Yeah, okay. Fair enough," he mumbled, shaking off his discomfort. "I'm Peter."

"Okay."

Peter couldn't help but laugh at that. He wasn't sure if the kid just had sharper than average street smarts or if he was distrustful and paranoid by nature. First names seemed like a relatively harmless thing to share.

"Well, alright then," he sighed and the boy eyed him suspiciously. He decided on a new plan. "In case you do run in to that guy again, let me give you some pointers on how to not get your ass kicked." That seemed to pique his interest, and his posture relaxed a bit. "You're first option should be to run away, but if you can't, dodge and stay out of range of his arms until he's tired himself out a bit." His eyes turned flat again, and Peter got the impression that it was taking every bit of his will power not to roll his eyes. Sensing his waning attention, he added: "And also, don't try to punch. You should kick."

The boy's brow quirked.

"Why?"

"That guy was, like, a foot taller than you. His arms are long and yours are short."

The boy nodded thoughtfully and Peter felt pleased that he seemed to actually listen to him.

"Here, reach your arm out straight in front of you," he instructed.

The boy seemed reluctant at first but then hesitantly stretched out his arm. Peter did the same, slowly moving himself closer so as to not startle him. When he got close enough, he balled his hand into a fist and lightly tapped his knuckles against the boy's short, twist out curls. The boy's fingertips were still six inches away from Peter's chin.

"See, you can't get close enough to hit him without getting hit yourself. But your legs are longer," Peter dropped his arm and shifted his weight on to one leg. "So, kick him in the stomach, like this." He slowly lifted his leg up in a side sweeping kick, twisting his posture so that the top of his shoe could lightly jab the boy's middle. Despite his slow movements and exaggerated care, the boy still flinched from the contact, never taking his eyes off of Peter's leg. Peter tried not to worry over that too much. "Try to kick hard enough to wind him and then, when he's down, run like hell."

The boy's eyes snapped up to meet Peter's and his brows knitted together.

"No way! If I can drop that clown, Ima kick his ass."

Peter lowered his leg, a frown pulling at his lips. He didn't like the idea of encouraging anyone to fight offensively. Protecting oneself defensively was an entirely different matter. Not to mention that he didn't have much faith in the boy's capability to beat up anyone. Eyeing his short, wiry frame, he could see the faintest hint of muscle definition lying under the skin of his arms. Eventually, they would develop there in his teenage years, but as of right now they were still wet noodle arms.

But the boy's eyes _did_ blaze with furious determination, and if that alone could win a fight, undoubtedly he'd win.

"Up to you, I guess. But I'd run. It's safer," he said with a shrug, trying to shake off the frustration that came with knowing that no matter what he said nothing would dissuade the boy. He cracked something like a snarky smirk at Peter, which he found to be more endearing than intimidating. It teased a smile out of Peter, and he shook his head.

For the first time, his eyes trailed to take in the surroundings. There were the bare bones of a tag on the wall, a little ways away from where they stood. Peter's stomach clenched as he recognized the shape of the yellow and red line work; an Iron Man helmet with the face plate lifted and nothing inside.

"Y'know, you really shouldn't be tagging walls like this. Vandalism is illegal."

He glanced back and saw the boy zipping up his backpack. He hefted it onto one shoulder while rolling his eyes at Peter.

"You almost had me there. I _almost_ thought you were cool."

"You did?" Peter asked, completely baffled as to when he'd given him that impression. The boy gave a genuine smile at that, and Peter didn't even care that he was laughing at his expense. He actually _looked_ his age for the first time since the beginning of their conversation, and that made Peter feel light. The boy's hand wound around the shoulder strap of his backpack and his grip tightened around it. He cast an appraising look at his unfinished work before looking back to Peter.

"And it's not a tag, it's _art_ ," he said, emphasizing his apparent disdain for the former. "I'd never throw up one of those stupid anarchy-avengers signs. It's not my style."

Peter's brow lifted as he cast another glance at the wall. Admittedly, he was impressed by level of skill presented in the piece, especially considering how young the boy was. Even incomplete, it was clear what the colourful lines were supposed to be. But his gaze became fixated on the emptiness residing in the helmet and he couldn't tear his eyes away. It was clear what the message was, and while it wasn't an anarchy symbol Peter found that they shared the same hateful meaning.

Art was a lens that gave a glimpse into how the artist viewed the world. A teacher in middle school had told Peter that, back in the days when art was a mandatory class and not an elective.

During his junior year, Peter had found himself spending more and more time with MJ. With each passing day, month, and cup of coffee, she grew to be less sarcastic and snide with him, and Peter had the startling realization that he was falling in love with the person he saw underneath the surface. The person who, on occasion, would discuss with him the meaning behind her sketchbook art. Peter recalled seeing one of her sketches of their decathlon team coach, Mr. Harrington, looking happier than he had ever seen him in life, kneeling down to cuddle a beagle.

' _Mr. Harrington has a dog?'_

' _No clue. But if he doesn't, he should get one.'_

' _Cuz dogs are the best?'_

' _Dogs are always the best, but that's not why he should get one. I don't think he's got a whole lot of good things going for him in life.'_

And she had been right. Until then, Peter hadn't ever noticed before how junky Mr. Harrington's car was, how tatter his clothes were, and how he had absolutely no personal items, like pictures, on his desk to indicate any sort of close relationships. It was sadder still for Peter when he found out that Mr. Harrington was in fact married. It was like magic, the change of perspective that allowed him to see an obvious truth.

But this didn't feel like the unveiling of truth hidden in plain sight. Staring into the empty cavern of the helmet, this felt more like a shift of blame than anything else.

"It's still illegal, though," Peter said to no one in particular. He glanced around and noticed that the boy had started to walk away. He was a few feet ahead, walking towards the street, when he called over his shoulder:

"Oh, get over it, man. What's a little paint?"

Staring after him, Peter stood in stunned silence. He really didn't think that he wanted to get over it. He was tired of compromising himself and his morality to conform to this new world and its struggles. Tired of turning a blind eye to things that wouldn't have been okay before.

He was also tired of shouldering the blame for all of this. The mask on the wall was Iron Man's, but it might as well have been all of the Avengers existing collectively within its hollowed out interior.

Peter looked back to where he had last seen the boy, but he was gone. In his absence, an epiphany struck him with jarring force: he had liked protecting the boy. He had almost forgotten how gratifying it was to shield the little guy from the world's constant dangers. There was nothing but himself stopping him from donning his mask and protecting others. Hadn't that been the essential purpose of Spider-Man all along?

Fear and insecurity had stood in his way before. And self-deprecating guilt; the monster that blamed himself for this mess. But maybe it was time to stop playing the blame game and instead start doing things again.

Peter turned and headed back towards the street. A grin played at his face as he thought of how much possibility tomorrow was filled with.

_'He didn't even thank me.'_

For some reason, that belated realization made Peter laugh harder than he had in a while.

* * *

The night came shrouding the city in darkness, save for the artificial light of the city. The afternoon heat became tempered by the disappearing sun light, making the night without a doubt the most enjoyable part of the day. The apartment had air conditioning, and normally Peter was thrilled to be living in an air-conditioned home for the first time in his life, but that night the walls made him feel caged. The air was too cold.

The rooftop was so much more appealing for his nightly perusing through the post snap world's business. Slipping his phone into his pocket, he climbed up his bedroom wall and slid his window open. His hand passed through the air between the two patchwork FRIDAY security brackets, thereby triggering the motion and heat sensors that Peter knew would send a notification to Mr. Stark's phone (he may have done some sneaky digging through the patchwork FRIDAY blue prints to figure out exactly how it worked. The mystery had been eating him alive).

Living on the top floor, he didn't have to climb far to reach the top of the building. Pulling himself up over the ledge, he sat down on the cooling cement tiles and pressed his back against the short barrier. With practiced ease, his finger swiped through various news titles, fast enough to satisfy his antsy jitters but slow enough to be able to read them. Many of them were old stories, or new ones written about topics that he was already aware of. But then a title made him pause.

' _Overwhelming Numbers in the Foster Care System Forces Ministry of Children to Revoke Certain Eligibility Requirements for Adoptive Parents.'_

Peter's finger hovered over the title, but he was hesitant to press on it. Reading about the sudden increase in orphans seemed like one of those things that would likely send him spiraling down the old guilt ridden, depressive, anxiety attacking hole. He was actually having a good day today, and despite the fact that he was one of those suddenly orphaned minors, reading this would probably be detrimental to his well-being.

He thought of the boy he'd met earlier that day, and tried not to feel too guilty as he scrolled past the page. The article wasn't even from an American source, and therefore had no relevance to his life. He told himself that forcefully, but it did little to ease the weight in his stomach.

' _Summer Harvest Predicted to be the Best on Record in the US, but is it Enough to Save Small American Farmers?'_

That seemed like a safer bet, and Peter opened the article to occupy his mind.

It was… boring as hell. His eyes skimmed over facts and figures that he'd never cared to know. He learned that corn, wheat, soybeans, and cotton were the US major export crops. He also learned that since 2010, small American Farmers had been losing their land to bankruptcy at the hands of large chain farms at an unprecedented rate. And also, apparently the current economic crisis was prompting people to advocate growing and selling crops domestically, rather than importing crops that could've been grown in the US.

All of that was dry and boring, but comprehensible. The thing that made Peter frown was the part about there being minimal waste due to the premium quality of the crops harvested. He thought back to his fist sized strawberry (and all the other oddly sublime produce he'd eaten since then), and considered with some astonishment that such quality might be the new norm and not an anomaly.

' _Less people means less pollution,'_ he reminded himself, but even before he had finished that thought he started to absentmindedly shake his head. It didn't add up. Air pollution would start to clear up with less cars on the road in a matter of weeks, but these crops were planted months ago. Not to mention, the only thing that should affect their growth was quality of soil and irrigation and stuff like that, right? It wasn't like Peter had vast reservoirs of agricultural knowledge locked away in his head, but he thought that was the case.

Still feeling perplexed, though not overly so, Peter continued to scroll and saw something that chased all other worries from his mind.

' _Stark Industries Donates $50 Million to Crisis Lines and Mental Health Organizations Across America'_

Yes.

Yes, they did.

Peter knew that a stupid grin was pulling at his face, but he didn't care. There was no one around to see it anyway. Pride surged through him as he read about the details. Ms. Potts was the head of the company and Mr. Stark was retired, but Peter knew that this was still a joint decision for them. And he knew, without having ever spoken about this to either of them before, that this wasn't much of a decision but rather an inevitability. Even having removed himself directly from the situation, Mr. Stark was still doing his part.

Smiling and closing his eyes, Peter saw the boy's unfinished graffiti. He really had Mr. Stark pegged all wrong, and the validation in his hands felt incredibly satisfying.

Mr. Stark also lived to help the little guy, just in a different way than what Peter did. And that solidarity meant the world to him.


	13. Tepid

The next day started abruptly for Peter. He jolted awake suddenly as though someone had shouted in his ear. No one was there, of course, and the only noise was the ambient sounds of the city. Light was pouring weakly through the windows and with a frown he realized that for some inexplicable reason, he'd woken up bright and early with the birds. It was unlike him to wake up voluntarily so early in the morning and he knew with every fiber of his being that he should still be asleep. Confusion swept over him as he lay in his bed, shaking off the depths of sleep and feeling out of sorts with the nervous energy and dread creep through his body.

He felt panicked and flustered, which was an odd thing to feel first thing in the morning. An ominous feeling prodded his brain, like he was meant to be doing something, or he had forgotten something important. The feeling was overwhelming and it forced him to sit bolt upright even though his brain was still half asleep. He reached for his bedside table and grabbed his phone. It lit up and confirmed for him that it was indeed ass o'clock in the morning. But it also confirmed something else that he had seen coming and yet was still caught off guard by.

It was the first of August.

His birthday was in nine days.

He had to make things right again with May before hitting that deadline. It was an arbitrary instruction based on no rational thought, and yet the importance of it resounded in him with such profound severity that he immediately jumped to his feet. Throwing off his blanket, he staggered as his feet struggled to find steady placement on the floor. He blinked hard to clear his disorienting head rush as the remnants of cobwebs scattered and sifted through his brain.

A horrible fact surfaced in his mind. One that he had been dwelling on for weeks: He had disrespected May by denying her a memorial service. The possibility of having one had come up in June, back when Mr. Stark had been forced to have daily life altering conversations with him.

" _Pepper and I are having a having a memorial service for Happy. We were thinking… maybe you might want to have one for your aunt?"_

" _No."_

" _That's okay, you don't have to make up your mind now. Think about it for a couple days and-"_

" _No. I don't want to."_

A memorial would've held such finality, and Peter couldn't bare it. At the time, sat on the couch at Happy's apartment, he imagined having a similar service for May and the thought left a bitter taste in his mouth. He had learned things about Happy that day that he should've found out progressively over many years, not condensed in one day. Despite having Mr. Stark involved in his life for two years, his life with May had never really been the subject of discussion. Reminiscing on old memories, sharing private stories with people who weren't there to remember her at all, but rather for Peter's sake, it had felt like an invasion of her privacy.

So, he had listened to the stories of Happy's life (he had been a boxer before Mr. Stark met him), looked through his shelves (there was a lot of _Downton Abbey_ boxsets), and saw out of the corner of his eye as Mr. Stark slipped Happy's phone into his pocket with quiet reverence. It was just the three of them in attendance, and the fact that Happy didn't seem to have a life outside of the one shared by the few people in his home had made Peter sorry for not appreciating him more when he was alive.

Peter didn't think that he had ever experienced such detrimental blind faith as he had with his denial. He hadn't been ready to admit to himself or anyone else that May was gone, that they _all_ were forever taken from this world. So he had shut his eyes, cover his ears, and tuned out everything that made her death permanent. In doing so, he had missed his chance to say good-bye as well as selfishly cheating her out of the final rite of passage in life.

Peter knew with absolute certainty that he would regret that for the rest of his life. No matter how many times he found himself alone, murmuring _'I'm sorry'_ to no one in some desperate hope that she heard him, the guilt would never ease. It was a moment that he would never get back again, just as Peter would never get his seventeen birthday back once the day had passed. All he could do now was try to make it up to her before he reached that day when he turned another year older and it became an unignorable fact that he was moving through life without her. Without _them_.

The solution struck Peter as his nervous feet were busy pacing around his room; He would go to Central Park and pay his respects at the newly constructed memorial grounds. The park had only just finished its reconstruction a week ago, and Peter had heard that the names of the vanished were so copious that they took up the entirety of the space.

At best, this was a half-baked plan. At worst, this was an insultingly pathetic send off for the woman who had raised him. He hated the idea of showing up empty handed, and with such short notice his mind reeled to think of a suitable parting gift. Freesias were May's favorite flower, and flowers were the conventional thing to lay down at a memorial. But Peter had yet to find an open florist shop, and his family wasn't conventional anyway.

His pacing halted as an idea came to him. In a matter of minutes, he was showered and dressed. He laid out his suit from Mr. Stark's wedding on his bed, not wanting to crinkle or stain it in his preparation of May's gift.

From his book shelf he pulled out a tattered old book:

' _Anyone Can Cook: Italian Dishes Made Simple.' – edited by May Parker._

In the kitchen, he bustled about as quietly as possible so as to not wake Mr. Stark or Ms. Potts. The kitchen was always fully stocked with a full selection of ingredients, and to Peter's relief all the stuff he needed for May's lasagna was there.

With the cook book propped open against a jar of tomato sauce, Peter followed along with laser focus to the original instructions and May's dish ruining additions. He was in the process of mincing pesto, as the original called for, while ground beef sizzled in a frying pan behind him when he heard Ms. Potts' distinctive footsteps.

"Peter?"

His head snapped up and he saw her shuffle into the kitchen in her pajamas, robe, and slippers. She didn't look tired, but Peter's heart still sank.

"Sorry, did I wake you?"

"No, not at all," she shook her head and waved off his concern. "I get up at this time any day that I'm heading into the office. Which is more or less every day." Peter's face twisted in pure bewilderment which made her laugh. He would've thought that, being the boss and having the power to set her own schedule, she could've picked a less icky time of day to be at work. She shuffled towards him and eyed the picture in the open cook book. "Why are you cooking lasagna at six in the morning?"

Peter dropped his eyes back to his pesto and he heard Ms. Potts move behind him to stir the browning beef.

"It's just something that I had to do."

"I've heard that one before," She murmured with a smile lacing her voice. "It's uncanny sometimes how alike you and Tony are." The spoon tapped a couple times on the side of the pan and was set down before she moved to Peter's side. She lifted the book up and glanced through the recipe with a perplexed frown. "This lasagna recipe looks… exciting."

That was, quite possibly, the kindest way that anyone had ever described one of May's experimental recipes. It very nearly rivaled Uncle Ben's mastery of polite tongue-in-cheek, and that was no easy feat.

"Oh, yeah?"

Ms. Potts nodded and set the book back where she got it from.

"Like there's a party in your mouth and someone brought acid."

Peter laughed and narrowly missed cutting his finger with the paring knife. Ms. Potts fingers wrapped around his wrist, stilling his hand while she took the knife from him. Peter smiled good-naturedly and surveyed the wide variety of spice bottles in front of him, all of which were to be used in the dish.

"The curry compliments the paprika," he said without much confidence, quoting May's haughty explanation from many years ago.

"Does it?"

Peter shrugged and cast Ms. Potts a smirk.

"Supposedly."

She reached forward and grabbed one of the spice bottles, her brows pulling together as she read the label.

"And the nutmeg?"

Peter sighed. He really had no defense for that one.

"I don't remember why that goes in, but it does. And don't ask me why there's radishes in this thing, there just are." Ms. Potts' lips pursed in a way that Peter had come to associate with her dreading something. "Don't worry, I won't make you eat this. It's not for you."

Relief broke over her pinched expression and Peter almost laughed again. He wouldn't wish this stomach twisting indigestion on anyone. He had to live through being the guinea pig once before, he'd never inflict that torture on anyone else.

"Whose it for?"

Everything in his being came to a standstill. He cast his eyes down, unable to meet her gaze, but answered honestly all the same.

"May."

It was silent for a second, save for the crackling sound of grease, and Peter's shoulders tensed. Arms looped around him, and Ms. Potts' cheek pressed into his temple as she squeezed him. It was unexpected, but not all together unwanted as Peter felt the tension bleed out of him. For a moment, she said nothing and Peter simply existed comfortably in her arms, feeling the pressure in them gently smother his sadness.

And then, traitorously, a spark of anger flickered to life deep in his chest. Peter's jaw clenched in tired frustration as his eyes slipped shut in an effort to block out his internal ire.

"You're a good kid," she murmured with a softness that Peter had been missing for a long time. Hot tears flooded his eyes. Pooling behind his eyelids and gathering in the seam they threatened to fall, but didn't. "And your aunt had… interesting taste," she added with one final squeeze, and Peter hated the way he leaned into it.

She pulled away, but kept one hand on his back. Its grounding weight rested between his shoulder blades. He focused on the feeling of it there as he pushed his irrational response deep down and buried it before Ms. Potts could notice. He reached up with one hand and brushed the wetness out of his eyes and was satisfied when they stayed dry.

"You're way more polite about her cooking than Mr. Stark was."

Ms. Potts smirked and the effect reminded Peter a bit of a shark.

"That's always going to be the case, Peter. Get used to it." She gave him a pat on the back before her hand pulled away and she turned to leave. "You'll be alright alone today?"

The question seemed to be asked more out of courtesy than genuine concerned, and Peter felt pride welling in him as he had finally earned that small amount of trust.

"Have a good day at work," he said by way of answer and continued his mincing.

* * *

At the edge of the field in Central Park, Peter became frozen in place. He had known that this would be difficult, but he hadn't fully grasped the gravity of it until he was standing where he was. Passing through the entrance of the park and following the short concrete path had been easy. It was identical to any other time that he had come here. The only difference was that he had picked up a brochure-style map at the gate, outlining the changes in the park. He had spared the title _'The Wall of the Vanished'_ a single glance, skimmed through some of the facts about its construction, and continued on his way. But to view the formidable vastness of the site in person gave overwhelming scope to his life.

His mind had gone quiet in the wake of his initial shock. Soon after, he'd thought with hysterical giddiness that the term _'wall'_ was a bit of a misnomer here. They were more like overgrown tombstones than walls. They filled the sight in front of him, stretching farther than his eyes could see. Rows upon rows of giant marble slabs three feet wide and ten feet tall, according to the brochure, with three columns of names on both sides. Five hundred names per stone. Six thousand stones total. Unassuming, identical from a distance, and uniformly spaced apart, they seemed to have erected themselves out of nowhere. Towering high in the air, they raised up from the earth in a display of solemn dignity.

Invisible millions crowded every inch of the park, permeating the air so tightly that they stole the breath from Peter's body and refused to give it back.

' _We were here.'_

A whisper carried on the wind for no one but Peter to hear, and it kept his feet rooted to the ground. Somewhere in those millions was May, and all Peter had to find her with was a shitty brochure that mapped out the park by alphabetical sections.

His palms were slicked with sweat, both from the heat of the day and the pounding of his heart. The feel of ceramic against his damp skin was uncomfortable, but the weight of the casserole dish in his hands grounded him. His fingers tightened around the edges strongly enough to secure his hold without shattering the dish. The pressure in his hands brought a piercing focus to his mind.

He had made this for her.

Standing at the border where concrete and grass met, there was no turning back now. Not when Ms. Potts and Mr. Stark knew where he was going and for what purpose. To return now would bring him nothing but shame for his cowardice and further regret for letting May down.

He set one foot on the grass, followed by another, and felt immediately as if he were crossing over into another world. A microcosm of the city's mourning encapsulated him as he ventured further inward, one step in front of the other. Grief was thick in the air, concentrated, stifling and choking him with its acridity. His sensitive ears heard every sniffle and wail from the tide of mourners weaving through the rows.

The giant slabs were moving past him quicker, and Peter realized that his walk had become a jog. Seconds later he was running and his speed felt out of place here, like he was shouting in a library. People turned to stare at him as he passed. He could feel their eyes on him as he ran, but like a race horse wearing blinders he kept his eyes forward to avoid their distraction. Each individual smearing into a blur of darkly coloured clothing, and Peter sprinted until his lungs burned. Slowly, the section that he had memorized as soon as he had opened his map drew closer. The section marked 'P'.

' _Find May. Give her the lasagna. Get out,'_ he repeated to himself over and over again like a mantra. Sweat ran into his eyes from his now damp hair. His eyes stung, but his hands were too full to wipe them. The thought of breaking his pace, of pausing to set the dish down and allowing the ghosts to catch up with him was terrifying.

So he endured, and he ran.

He nearly ran past the 'P' section, stopping comically in his sprint when he realized he had almost run through to the 'Q's. He backtracked, casting his searching gaze over the leveled field.

There were supposed to be willow trees here, but they were gone. Peter remembered sunny afternoons where he'd grasp handfuls of their long, wispy branches and then curl his knees up to his chest. He'd hang and swing his weight from side to side like a metronome, loving every second of air-born suspension until Ben would tell him to stop and warn him that he was damaging the trees.

But they were cut down now, so Peter supposed that any minor damage he had caused was a moot point. They'd been uprooted and paved over, like they'd never existed to begin with. In their stead, a fraction of the six thousand stones replaced them.

Peter tried to not be bitter about their removal. At the end of the day, it was just another thing that he needed to let go of, and their importance was far less significant than the names that stood in their place. With steely resolve, he began his search.

Circling and weaving through massive rectangles, his eyes skimmed over seemingly endless lists of names that became forgotten as soon as his eyes passed over them.

'… _Parem'_

'… _Paril'_

'… _Park'_

And finally:

' _May Parker'_

There she was. One name among many. Tucked away in their numbers and hidden to anyone who didn't know to look. Even her name was more disguised than most. Sandwiched between a few other Parkers (none of which were their relatives. It was just what came with having a common last name.), she blended in among the strangers and lost her vibrancy in the gray stone. His eyes stung again, but from tears this time. The sun was in his eyes from craning his neck up to see her name listed in the middle column, three feet above his head. Balancing the lasagna in one hand, he rested the other against his brow to block out the light.

"Hey, May," he murmured and felt the tears finally slip down his cheeks. He wanted to trace his fingertips over the sunken grooves of the engraved letters, but she was untouchable in death in every sense of the word. He glanced down at his lasagna. Through the glass lid Peter could see the crispy cheese. It had browned up nicely, deceptively concealing the horrors that lay beneath it. With a strained smile, he glanced back up at her name and gestured to the dish. "I know you probably didn't want this to be your legacy, but you made me eat it once, back when you were hooked on _'MasterChef'._ That was your choice. You took a gamble, artistic liberties were taken to the extreme, and this… thing came out of the oven."

Laughing through the tears, he knelt down on the grass. The lasagna was set down – Ms. Potts had assured him that she didn't mind never seeing the casserole dish again – and he nestled it in among the other mementos.

Peter's throat rapidly began to close up. He took a deep breath through his nose to clear his thoughts, and his eye wandered to the other things surrounding his lasagna: flowers (some trimmed nicely, others with roots still attached like they'd been ripped from a garden), teddy bears, glittery fairy wings, pictures illustrating fragments from a variety of lives, pieces of paper with poems written on them, and burnt out candles.

There were some bizarre items too like a jar of pennies, a pack of cigarettes still in the cellophane, and tiny sample bottles of hard liquor with the seal unbroken. All of them with meaning to someone, though it was lost on Peter. His own offering joined them, and he knew that someone else would later look at it with just as much confusion as he had for these strange things.

He sighed and wiped the tear streaks from his cheeks. His eyes had gone dry again from his brief stint of crying. It was always fleeting these days, the moments when he felt the need to cry. He would and then minutes later he'd dust himself off and carry on like nothing had happened. A vaguely hollow feeling would remain in him, serving as the only reminder that he had fallen apart, if only momentarily.

The back of his neck prickled, and Peter twisted his body to look behind him. An elderly man stood a respectable distance away from Peter, giving him his space while at the same time crowding him. His eyes, magnified behind thick coke-bottom glasses, pointedly looked away from Peter as he stared at the stone a few feet to the left. He said nothing, but it was clear that he was waiting for his turn to stand where Peter was. His hands were clasped together over his stomach, pinning a ' _Paw Patrol'_ birthday card with a big '4' on it to his middle.

Peter's stomach clenched as he scrambled to his feet. He hurriedly dusted blades of grass and dirt off of the knees of his black dress pants. Taking long strides, Peter quickly walked by the man, who met his eyes as he passed with compassionate understanding.

"Thanks, son," he said quietly, and damn if Peter's heart didn't go all warm and fuzzy. He smiled easily under his endearing sincerity and nodded his head in acknowledgement, his voice not yet ready for speech.

There were concrete benches built into the ground every twenty feet or so, and Peter sank weak-kneed on to the closest one. He felt tired, but not quite as worn out as he had expected to be. The atmosphere that had overwhelmed him when he had first crossed over that grassy threshold felt diluted now. It was as if he had acclimatized to its intensity, as impossible as that may seem.

It was bearable to exist in, but Peter also knew that he would never come back here again after today. Unlike Queens, which had the potential to recover and grow into a community full of life, this park would remain forever stagnant in its harboring of death. While Peter knew all too well how important closure was, he wished that there had been some way of attaining that without ruining the source of many happy afternoons. Without trees to swing from, what was the point of coming back?

This park had been repurposed in to a graveyard, and Peter had no desire to return.

He had come here to say good-bye, but he had never been one for prolonged suffering. Today would be a one-off, he decided. He'd make it count for everyone that he would miss.

Shrugging off the jacket of his suit – it was too damn hot out!- he reached into the pocket and pulled out the map. In his mind he comprised a list. In his years on the decathlon team, he had built some camaraderie among the other members. He wouldn't go so far as to call them friends, but he would miss Zoha's deadpan jokes, Betty's positive bubbly nature, Josh's increasingly lame and farfetched excuses for being late (his favorite had been when he'd strolled into the library, ten minutes late, with a Starbucks coffee and said that Spider-Man was fighting some muggers in the subway and that was causing train delays. He and Ned had shared a side-eyed glance and a smirk, but said nothing.). Ned, and MJ were technically part of the team, but they were also so much more than that.

With his mind made up, Peter stood and headed towards the beginning of the alphabet. His list started at the 'B's with Betty Brant.

On the way, he loosened his tie and popped the collar button of his shirt. It was going to be a long day, and the heat would be miserable. Despite that he couldn't bring himself to regret his decision to wear such an uncomfortable suit. May had deserved his best effort, and if he had to put up with a little heat exhaustion then so be it.

Hours passed, but Peter barely noticed in his search. He worked his way steadily through each section of the park, and the poor organization of the layout left him treading over seemingly every inch of it. The sun was getting high in the sky, indicating that it was nearing noon, and Peter could feel a sun burn creeping up over the bridge of his nose and cheeks.

In the 'J's, Peter sat on a bench to rest his feet. About five feet in front of his face, ' _Michelle Jones'_ seared into his retinas.

' _My friends call me MJ'_

Just like that, she had been dubbed under a new name, and Peter, in his eagerness to take her tentatively extended friendship, never called her 'Michelle' again. It almost looked wrong to see her name written like that: proper but incorrect. He was tempted to return with a sharpie to correct the mistake, if for no other reason than to set her apart from the other 'Jones's who may or may not have been her relatives. There were a lot of them. Surely, they weren't all her family? Peter realized with a sinking heart that, despite growing closer over their two years together, they had never been close enough for him to learn what her parents' names were.

Why hadn't he ever asked? He knew that she valued her space, and he had never wanted to make her uncomfortable, but maybe he should have been more assertive. A snide thought countered with: why didn't she ever tell him their names? For two years he had considered her to be one of his closest friends, but she had never once invited him over to her place. They had met at coffee shops sometimes, outside of school hours, but there was always an underlining sense of cool unattachment there that Peter hadn't wanted to acknowledge at the time.

Maybe they weren't as close as Peter had thought. Maybe it had all been wishful thinking on his part. Or maybe there were feelings there, lying just below her cautious exterior. Countless times, Peter had pep talked himself up to asking her out, only to chicken out at the last minute. He should've asked her out when he had the chance. At least then he would've definitively known what they had been to each other. Instead he found himself replaying in his mind every one of their interactions and guessing at the intention that lay within them.

Regret was a hard thing to live with, and from time to time Peter staggered under its weight while wishing that he had less of it to carry.

Climbing to his feet again, he closed the gap, kissed the tips of his fingers and pressed them over MJ's name.

"Bye, MJ."

' _Bye, loser,'_ his mind supplied in her voice, and he smiled weakly. There was nothing else to say really. Well, nothing that he was willing to say aloud in public with so many people milling about. In this communal sort of mourning, all those private, intimate things that he would've confessed to her, had he known that their time together was short, stayed in the back of his mind. Unspoken but no less real for him.

Pulling his hand away, he swiftly strode towards the neighbouring 'L' section. A deep weariness was starting to settle in his bones, but he was determined to finish the journey that he'd set out on. The short walk did little to ease his frazzling nerves, and all too soon he was standing in front of Ned's name. It was the last one on the left hand column, engraved just above the neatly trimmed grass. Sitting on the lawn, as close to the stone as the surrounding ring of mementos would allow him, he ran his thumb over the name and felt the tickle of grass on his knuckles.

' _Edward Leeds'_

No one ever called him that. In fact, Peter had nearly forgotten on numerous occasions that his name was 'Edward'. It always took him off guard on the first day of school when a new teacher would call out: _'Edward?',_ only for Ned to correct them. They would make note of it in the attendance sheet, and then Peter would have a full year to forget all over again.

His oldest friend. His self-appointed guy-in-the-chair. They'd known each other for eleven years, and he could barely remember a time in his life where Ned wasn't in it. He had been his only friend for such a long time that Peter often felt at a loss now that he was gone. From stupid memes and TikTok videos to life altering decisions and catastrophic fallouts, the reaction that each one incited in Peter became amplified when he had shared them with his best friend.

He would miss that. No, he missed it already. Countless times in the past few months, Peter's fingers had itched to text Ned about whatever inconsequential news that he had. The excitement of good news, the desperate need to alleviate the misery of bad news, all of it become lackluster without his friend's thoughts on it.

Ned had been such a huge part of Peter's life for so long, to be without him so suddenly left empty spaces in his life. Spaces that he hadn't even realized that Ned had occupied until he was gone. In his absence Peter had come to realize how much he relied on him; for laughs and corny jokes. For just being there as someone who Peter could stand on equal footing with and as someone who understood him completely.

' _I just wanna thank you for letting me be a part of your journey.'_

The memory of that day in the school's shop, breaking apart a Chitauri energy core with a hammer (in hindsight, not his best plan, but he made do with his resources), surfaced in Peter's mind and he felt shame bubble up in him. He had groaned internally when Ned had said that, rolling his eyes at his over dramatic antics. He hadn't really appreciated back then how incredible it was that he had a friend like Ned to help him with all sorts of stupid, sometimes life threatening, shenanigans. Really, it was Peter who was thankful to have Ned on the journey. He wished he had told him that more often when he was alive.

"Thanks for being there," he murmured, meaning every word. Most people would probably start to distance themselves from the guy that almost got them killed in an elevator explosion, but not Ned. In his way, he was sort of fearless.

A headache was starting to bloom behind Peter's eyes, and his eyelids slipped shut to contain the thrumming. Weather it was from emotional exhaustion or dehydration, he couldn't tell. But it was clear that he didn't have much more energy left in him. He heaved himself to his feet, sensing that his day was starting to spiral to a close, and headed further down the alphabet.

At each team mate, he stopped only briefly to say a quick goodbye. At the 'S's, visiting Joshua Scarino, relief crept up on him because the end was in sight. He only had three more stops to make, and then he could go home and sleep for a week. The knowledge of that kept his body standing upright on his feet.

No sooner had he located Josh's name, muttered a sincere _'goodbye'_ and turned to walk towards the 'T's, that something unexpected caught his eye.

There was a girl sitting on the ground. That in and of itself wasn't odd, but the casual way that she leaned her back against one of the nearby stones and rested with her legs stretched out in front of her made Peter's eyebrows raise. She was reading a novel, her eyes slowly roving left to right over the page like she had all the time in the world to immerse herself in it. She shifted uncomfortably on the hard ground, straightened her back for a second and rolled her stiff shoulders before falling back again. Her eyes never left the page. She must've cleared a space in the mementos in order to sit that close to the stone. The numerous sentimental offerings were set carefully beside her, suggesting that she had at least handled them with respect.

The girl was striking in the setting of the park. While everyone else that Peter had seen, including himself, wore some sort of dark mourning colour, she stood out in a colour scheme of white and pink. Blouse, skirt, leggings, shoes, and even the coat that she sat on (which Peter could only assume she'd brought for the sole purpose of avoiding grass stains rubbing into her skirt. No way was she gonna wear it when the heat rivaled Satan's hellfire.), all of it was perfectly coordinated and smartly pressed.

Her thumb turned a page rather aggressively. The paper made a little snapping noise as it cut through the air, and her head raised suddenly. Her eyes met Peter's, and the hard glint in them made him freeze like a deer in headlights.

"What?" She snapped and narrowed her eyes at him. "You never saw someone reading in a park before?"

Peter's cheeks flushed under her hostility, and the embarrassment of being caught made his heart flutter in his chest. Her eyes grew wide as the look in them turned expectant, and he held up his hands nervously in response.

"S-sorry, sorry," he stammered. His feet shuffled and he shifted his draped suit jacket from one forearm to the other. "I didn't mean to stare at you… it's just…" He didn't know how to finish that. Any sort of justification, no matter how well intended, would come across creepy as hell. So he finished lamely: "sorry."

The girl rigid posture relaxed somewhat and she sighed. Her hand ran tiredly through her short, blonde hair, causing a few strands to puff out from the static electricity and then fall perfectly back into place.

"No, it's okay. I shouldn't have snapped. All of these dirty looks just got me on edge," she grumbled, closing her book on her index finger to save her place. "You see that lady with the active bitch face, over there?" She tipped her head to the side, and Peter followed the direction with his eyes. Sitting on a bench, a middle-aged woman dressed in a black pant suit and sporting a short bob cut, was glaring daggers at the girl. Her thinly veiled raged started to visibly bubble as she realized that both Peter and the girl were staring back at her.

"Active bitch face? Like, the opposite of resting bitch face?" Peter asked and glanced back at the girl, mostly to avoid the waves of hatred that were rolling off of the woman.

"Exactly," she said lightly, not looking at Peter but instead smiling sweetly at the woman. She wiggled her fingers at her in a taunting sort of wave, and Peter could see gasoline being thrown on the woman's restrained anger. "She's been giving me the stink eye for over twenty minutes. You'd think she'd have something better to do than passive-aggressively harass teenage girls, but I guess everyone needs a hobby."

Peter's lips pressed into a hard line as he observed from a distance this bizarre generational stand-off unfold. He wasn't too keen on watching the inevitable show down, and some small rational part of his mind told him to move on with his own business. But he was intrigued by the strangeness of it all, and before he knew it, he'd started to walk towards the girl.

"God, I hope she tries to come over here to give me a talking to," she muttered under her breath just as Peter got close to her. "Please do, lady. I dare you."

"What are you reading?" he asked, in hopes of distracting her. She flicked her gaze over at Peter and held up the cover of her book for him to see the title:

' _A Midsummer Night's Gene'_.

Below the title, the cover art depicted a collage of retro mad science paraphernalia and red capped mushrooms with white speckles. Peter wasn't sure what he had been expecting, but it wasn't trippy, sci-fi flavored Shakespeare. Some of his surprise must've shown on his face because she said defensively: "Don't judge me, I like my trash."

Being a connoisseur of pop culture trash himself, thanks to being raised with Ben's strict regimen of cult classics, B-list movies and indie films (Godawful ones. Not even the ones of Sundance caliber), Peter smiled at the thought of anyone accusing him of being judgmental on that front.

"Oh, no, I don't think you're-"

She waved him off rudely with an irritated flap of her hand and the action stunned him into silence. She leaned her head back against the stone slab behind her and crossing her arms over her chest. One hand still held her place in the book and the other wrapped around her elbow.

"I come to Central Park to read whenever the weather's nice. This is _my_ thing. I'm acting normal. They're the ones who're crying over a bunch of damn rocks."

Peter's mouth worked open and close a couple of times, but he couldn't quite think of what to say to such a callous statement.

"Well…" he trailed, still a bit flummoxed. "It's just… grief, y'know?"

Blue eyes hardened into ice and their unforgiving sternness made Peter feel like a suspect under interrogation.

"Yes, I _do_ know. I'm grieving too."

She reached her free hand up above her head, and her fingers trailed tenderly down a short list:

' _George Stacy'_

' _Helen Stacy'_

' _Simon Stacy'_

She didn't even need to look up to see where her hand was going, and Peter wondered with growing sympathy how often she had done that to know exactly where those names were by touch. His throat clenched and the girl dropped her hand back down to rest on her abdomen.

"I lost my _everything_ ," her voice cracked at the end, despite the anger fueling her momentum. She forcibly coughed to clear her throat, and Peter felt his own grow tighter. "And then they just had to go and take Central Park from me too."

"I'm sorry," Peter choked out. Feeling his eyes grow wet, he blinked hard a few times to push the tears away. The girl was determinedly avoiding his gaze, so she couldn't see them anyway. She ignored his condolence and continued looking straight ahead of her. A deep breath expanded her chest and she let it out slowly.

"Captain America said that fifty percent of all living creatures are gone," she said with forced flippancy. If not for the near imperceptible hint of steel underlying her words, they might've been discussing the weather. "If every other country is doing what America's doing, how much of the Earth do you think will be covered by these things?" She patted the stone behind her head. The questioning look that she shot at Peter informed him that she was actually waiting for an answer. Upon realizing this, Peter nervously curled his fingers into the fine fabric of his jacket.

"Like in a measurement of square miles?"

"Or square kilometers," she offered with a shrug. "Whichever unit of measurement you prefer."

"I don't know," Peter admitted while wondering if she was joking or not. She looked serious and held his gaze steadfast with her own despite his obvious discomfort. "There are too many unknown variables. That's kind of a morbid math problem, don't you think?"

Her eyes flicked down, and Peter was relieved to be released from their hold. Then he realized that she was staring with intense fixation at the flowers, cards, and pictures next to her, and his throat ached again.

"The rule was supposed to be fifty percent of all life, but I lost one hundred percent of my family. How's that fair?"

The hardened defensive tone in her voice wavered and gave way. A curtain was pulled back and Peter saw a glimpse of utter devastation, the intensity of which he was well acquainted with. To find his own pain so perfectly replicated and manifested in a stranger was startling, although he wasn't sure why. There were many like him who had lost all of their family. It wasn't like his case was special.

Immediately, he corrected himself, because he _was_ special. Through happenstance and luck, he had managed to fall into a safety net, and an incredibly caring one at that. He remembered the boy that he had met the day before, the only one in his foster home to have family come back for him, and he thought of the many faceless orphans, who were apparently overwhelming the foster system, left without anyone. Fear and something akin to guilt gripped him with ferocity. A cold sweat broke on his skin and his heart began to race.

"Are you okay? Do you have a place to stay? Do you need anything?"

She glanced up, perhaps startled by the urgency of his questioning, but Peter had no qualms about being too forward when potential homelessness was on the line. Her eyes softened as they took in his concern, and for the first time Peter saw her without such harsh irritability permeating her features. With such severe tension chased from her face, she resembled a different person entirely and a vague hint of recognition stirred deep within him.

"I'm alright," she said with a weak smile, and Peter's bunched shoulders released with his sigh. "I moved in with my best friend's family. He's one of the lucky ones that got to keep one hundred percent of his family." Bitterness leached back into her tone, lacing it unpleasantly with sour jealousy. Realizing what she'd just said, her expression flooded with remorse. "I shouldn't have said that. I'm sorry, I shouldn't be dumping this on you. I don't really know you at all."

"It's okay," Peter assured her as he watched her posture curl within herself. He meant it too, it _was_ okay. He understood completely.

Recently, for inexplicable reasons, every day was a battle that he fought to subside his temper. Flickers of annoyance would crackle his nerves without provocation and restlessness would spark deep in his bones. The urge to _do_ to _run_ to _jump_ , often without a known motivator and without purpose, would seize him and then he would be gone again to wander through his new neighbourhood.

The worrisome thing about it was that half of the time he wasn't even sure what made him do the things he did. Moments of aggravation came and went so frequently; they were starting to blend one into the next, creating a state of being out of their persistence. Unnerved at first, he had eventually grown used to the silent war waging inside of him. His wariness kept it in check, kept it from seeping through the cracks and ruining everything. He knew that it could be misconstrued as ingratitude for those he still had in his life, and the threat of it poisoning the good in his life was enough to keep it safely smothered down.

But he got it, he really did. Being on high alert all the time to keep all that ugly crap tucked away was tiring, and sometimes despite his best efforts Mr. Stark and Ms. Potts could sense it.

Slowly and hesitantly Peter lowered himself down on the grass. He watched carefully to see if the girl would protest, but she didn't. She _did_ raise a brow at him as he moved to sit cross-legged. A heavy silence stretched between them while Peter built up his courage, and after a moment it started to turn awkward. The girl's eyes started to dart about uncomfortably just before Peter took a deep breath.

"I lost my family too," he confessed in a low voice like it was sensitive information, though he was sure that its significance was lost in the face of such commonality. "And my best friend. And the girl that I really liked. And everyone on my decathlon team is gone too, if you can believe that." Her blonde brows shot up, nearly disappearing into her bangs, and much to Peter's horror he saw her eyes turn misty. A panicked sort of guilt coursed through him and he cracked a tight smile to try to lighten the mood. She didn't smile back. "So, yeah. I get it. This sucks. No need to explain why it sucks."

Something about his blunt honesty must have been funny to her, because she laughed thickly through her tears. Her hand flew up to her mouth to contain it and her eyes widened, as though she were taken off guard by her own reaction. Her book slipped out of her other hand, flapping shut in the pile of mementos, and the girl eyed it with exasperation.

"Dammit."

Peter smiled wanly as she snatched it up and tried to find her page again. With a frustrated sigh she gave up and tossed it dejectedly back on the ground. Peter tried to suppress a laugh but failed and then squirmed under her unamused glare. After a second she laughed too, and using the edge of her finger nail she brushed away the tears trembling on her lash line while neatening the edge of her eyeliner.

"I'm Peter, by the way," he blurted out, realizing that he had never actually introduced himself, and feeling slightly embarrassed by his timing. The girl's head tilted to the side and a look of mild confusion crossed her face before it vanished and was replaced with a mischievous smile.

"I know."

Her sure look froze Peter and for a long second, he remained motionless.

"Y-you do?"

"Yep," she said, popping the 'p'. "Peter Parker. You're going to be a senior this year and you go to Midtown School of Science and Technology."

Peter's eyes grew wide as all sorts of alarm bells went off in his head. Years of maintaining a secret identity had made privacy an invaluable asset… but this was unsettling even by normal people standards, right?

The girls face split into a wide grin, apparently getting some twisted sort of satisfaction out of Peter's distress.

"I'm not a creep, I just like to know the competition."

"Competition?"

"Did I stutter?" she asked, making Peter frown. His mind worked in overdrive while she waited with an expectant sort of air for Peter's brain to connect the dots. It never did, so with a roll of her eyes she added: "I went to Brooklyn Visions Academy."

"Oh."

It all clicked. He _had_ seen her before, sitting on the opposite side of a gymnasium behind a table and dressed in the same uniform navy blazer as her other team mates.

"Your decathlon team faced off against mine last year," Peter announced, like she didn't already know that. Her lips pursed and she nodded her head in an exaggerated manner.

"Mhmm."

He placed his palms on the grass and leaned his weight back on them, trying to recall that particular decathlon match. They had won and then gone out for celebratory donuts in Brooklyn. The place they'd went to had the best raspberry jelly donuts that Peter had ever had in his life. Never before had he had a donut with such a well-balanced jelly to bread ratio. And the sweetness of the powdered sugar didn't completely take over the tart raspberry. And it had been hot and crispy too like they'd just come out of the oven!

The girl's eyes were narrowing at him, and Peter scrambled to focus again. That wasn't the part that he was supposed to be remembering and her impatience was starting to become obvious. He remembered that Midtown and Visions had been tied for a long time, and then they'd moved into the tie-breaker round. And then…

"You guys almost won," Peter offered a sheepish smile, and the girl's frown deepened.

"Yeah, but then _you_ made sure that we didn't." Peter almost flinched from the subtle venom in her tone, knowing that it was directed at him specifically. He had been the one to answer correctly the tie breaker question. She smirked then, and added: "Don't worry, I don't hold grudges. I mean, I was kinda bitter about it at the time, but life's too short to get hung up on trivial shit like school, and grades, and decathlon loses."

Peter's skin prickled as a wave of goose bumps washed over him. His eyes unfocused and he blinked hard to correct them. When he opened them, rows of stones stared accusingly down at his place on the ground.

"At least it was a near miss," she continued, but Peter could barely understand her. She sounded far away and he struggled to latch on to her words. "You guys didn't _annihilate_ us, so we got to save face at least. Silver linings and all that…" she trailed off, and Peter was vaguely aware a silence had fallen. "Hey, are you alright?"

He was done. He knew it fully and completely. The day was over for him, and he had to leave. Flash, Suzan, and Zoha would have to forgive him for leaving them out… but they were gone. And really… did it matter?

"I gotta go…" he heard himself say, and the girl watched him carefully rise to his feet. He turned and set off in the general direction of one of the exits when he heard: "It's Gwen, by the way!"

Eventually, he stopped walking once her words had tumbled over in his head and had truly reached him. He turned to look back and saw her staring at him with concern colouring her features.

"I'm Gwen Stacy," she clarified in a gentle manner that Peter would've been insulted by if he were more present. Her words rolled off of him, barely registering in his head.

Without a word, he turned back and left.

* * *

When Peter returned home, tired and throat parched from thirst, he discovered that he was the only one there. He remembered then… something about Ms. Potts and a check-up appointment after work. Mr. Stark had gone with her, he always did, and Peter was alone.

His bed called to him. Stopping in the kitchen long enough to slam back a couple glasses of water, he fell into his bed still fully clothed and his jacket crumpled in a heap on the floor. Face squished into his pillow, he closed his eyes for just a second.

When he opened his eyes again a hand was on his back, gently shaking him awake.

"Hey, kid? You with me?"

He hummed noncommittally and rolled over on to his back. Mr. Stark sat on the edge of his bed, eyeing him with mild amusement before wincing in empathy.

"That's a nasty looking sunburn you got there." Mr. Stark gestured to Peter's face. He frowned sleepily, reached up and prodded his cheek below his eye. An ache bloomed across his hot skin and he let out an involuntary hiss.

"Owww…" he moaned, and Mr. Stark smiled grimly.

"Yeah, I bet. The sun took a lot outta you, huh?"

He nodded his head.

"Did you drink some water?"

He nodded again.

"Want some aloe vera?"

He shook his head, as he didn't think he had the energy to expend on applying it. Mr. Stark laughed quietly under his breath as though trying to preserve the quiet in the room.

"We're having dinner in a little bit. You in or do you wanna sleep some more?"

"Sleep," he murmured, eyes already starting to droop in response to the option. But then he frowned and added: "If that's okay."

"I just said it was," Mr. Stark reminded him lightly with a smile. Peter could see a sobering thought pass over his face, turning his expression cautious. "How was Central Park?"

' _Terrible,'_ he thought.

"Good," he said and watched Mr. Stark's gaze turn calculating.

"Yeah?"

"Yeah."

For a moment, they stared at each other. Mr. Stark's prying gaze searched over every inch of his expression, making Peter feel uncomfortably exposed. Agitation stirred in him, though it was dampened by his fatigue. With a tired sigh, Mr. Stark's eyes lost their seriousness. A half smile softened his features, but it did nothing to ease Peter's grated nerves.

"Alright. We can talk about it later if you want, when your hard-boiled brain rehydrates."

' _No. I don't want to,'_ caught in his throat. A few months ago, he would've said it, but vocalizing that point now felt unnecessarily hurtful. There was only so many he could stand to shoot down Mr. Stark's help, and at this point it was redundant. He wished he would stop offering it. He didn't need it.

Peter froze as Mr. Stark's hand extended, reaching towards the top of his head, as though to ruffle his hair. He recoiled into his pillow, realizing only a half second later that he'd done it when Mr. Stark's smile fell off his face. The glint in his eye vanished and his sad, tired gaze made Peter feel like he was falling. His hesitant hand touched Peter's hair, pulling back with a blade of grass pinched between his fingers. Peter wondered idly how it had gotten there.

Dropping his hand in to his lap, Mr. Stark stood and murmured, "Night, kid."

The door closed behind him as he left, shutting Peter away from the ambient noises of Mr. Stark and Ms. Potts living their lives and leaving him with nothing but a growing sense of dread. He hadn't thought it possible when returning home, but as his eyelids turned to lead and pulled his consciousness down, he realized that he somehow felt even lonelier now than he had before.

* * *


	14. Simmer

"Tell me again, what Dr. Strange told you?"

"Pete…"

"About the Infinity Stones?"

"We've been over this."

"Please?"

Maybe it was the whininess in Peter's voice that made Mr. Stark cave, or perhaps he had finally accepted after ten minutes of relentless needling that Peter wasn't going to let this go. A pencil was balanced between Peter's fingers and his thumb was striking the eraser nub repeatedly against his open chemistry notebook. He could see it grating on Mr. Stark's nerves, but he couldn't make his hand stop. On top of that, Dum-E was making _weep-woo_ noises as he made a solid effort to sweep up some scrap metal in to a neat pile in the corner. With a sigh, Mr. Stark finally set down his soldering iron and watched the last wisps of smoke rise up from the circuit board he'd been working on and dissipate into the air.

"I should've shown you my memory in BARF back when we were still at the compound," he grumbled, drawing his thumb and forefinger inward over his closed eyelids and pinching the bridge of his nose between them briefly. He let go and opened his eyes again. The look he shot Peter from across the lab table was decidedly tired, and Peter felt the smallest twinge of guilt worm it's way into his stubborn persistence. "Strange made a sparkly portal thing and took me and Bruce back to the… what'd he call it? Sanctum? Yeah, a sanctum."

A shiver wracked Peter's body, making his startled hand drop his pencil. It rolled off the table and clacked to the floor, but he barely noticed. A swift warmth had passed over him in a wave of tingles, and the sensation reminded him of tissue paper lightly grazing over his skin. It tickled and made his arm hair raise, but not in the usual way like when his spidey-sense was screaming at him _'danger!'_. As suddenly as it came, it went, leaving Peter perched tensely on his tall lab stool, head swiveling around to find the source. Mr. Stark's brow pinched as he took in Peter's confusion.

"You good?"

There was probably a breeze in here. Yeah, that was it. There were no windows, but the lab was well ventilated, and the AC must've turned on. And Peter… must've had a weird reaction and imagined that the cool air currents were warm.

"Mhmm." Peter mumbled. Smiling uneasily, he forced himself to sit still and ignore the eerie prickling of his skin. He couldn't hear any fans whirling. "So, then what happened?"

The question made Mr. Stark's concern fall away, and a worn-down sort of annoyance took its place. He set his elbows on top of the table and leaned on them, leaving his work forgotten next to him.

"You mean after Strange strongly suggested that I accompany him back to Hogwarts?"

A sharp barb hastily flew to Peter's tongue, and with great restraint he swallowed the urge to ask sarcastically, what else they had been talking about. That wasn't like him, and yet… as of late it was becoming harder and harder to suppress sullen, snarky remarks like that. Shame scrabbled at his rising irritation, as it often did these days. As always, they wrestled one another with no clear winner, leaving Peter to wallow in the godawful mixture of the two. He dropped his troubled gaze to his notes on Hess's law and instead he muttered:"Yeah."

"I already told you," Mr. Stark's voice was muffled and Peter didn't need to look up to know that he was rubbing his hand over his goatee. "His assistant, Wong, gave us the Cliffs Notes on the Infinity Stones."

Peter's head snapped up, and the accompanying accusatory glint in his eyes made his whole demeanor turn stormy.

"Dr. Strange had an assistant? You never mentioned that before!"

His raised voice took Mr. Stark aback, and admittedly, it had startled Peter too. He hadn't given his voice permission to shout, but it did all the same. Mr. Stark's hand dropped from his face, landing with a thud on the table as his wide eyes became increasingly unsettled.

"What does it matter if he had a sidekick?"

"It _does_ matter," Peter insisted as he fought to keep his tone level. Already, he could feel anxiety seizing his insides, because if Mr. Stark had forgotten a detail like that what else had he omitted? What else did he deem unimportant which could be crucial?

"Alright, alright, so now you know. Mr. Mistoffelees had a hype man." Mr. Stark's made a quelling gesture with his hand, and that combined with his placating tone made resentment burn like glowing embers deep in Peter's chest. "At first, I figured that his job was mostly putting bunnies into hats, but it turns out that Wong was really quick on his feet. He's real handy in a fight."

"What'd he say then?"

Mr. Stark didn't sigh, but his overall bearing deflated as his attempt at humor was deflected.

"He said that during the big bang, the infinity stones were created and scattered across the universe. There's six of 'em: Power, mind, space, time, reality, and soul."

The same story with slightly different wording every time. There was nothing more said this time either. No clue revealed itself, no detail stood out as significant in Peter's overactive mind… and what was worse was that he didn't even know what he was searching for.

"That's it?" he asked. As he spoke, he realized that he could feel his teeth. They didn't ache, but the pressure in his clenched jaw had made them noticeable. "That's all he said?"

"Yep." Mr. Stark's eyes remained serious even as his shoulders shrugged innocently. "Like I said; Cliffs Notes."

"There's gotta be something else," Peter muttered to no one in particular. His eyes unfocused, and everything in his sight became blurry as his thoughts retreated within himself.

"Peter."

The authority ringing in Mr. Stark's voice as well as the urgent sound of fingers snapping brought him back to himself. When his sight cleared again, Mr. Stark's perturbed expression was the first thing that he became aware of. The stinging guilt in his stomach was the second.

"Are we really starting this again?" he asked without any trace of his usual quick sarcastic wit. There was a gentleness in his firm voice, but Peter could still hear the silent, exhausted plea underneath it all begging him to let it go. It would be easier and perhaps kinder to do that, but all Peter could see was the challenge taunting him. It incited his heart rate to pick up, and a subtle heat flushed the back of his neck. "You already know that there's nothing more anyone can do. Why are you doing this?"

It was quiet as Peter and Mr. Stark stared at each other, save for the sound of Dum-E's sweeping and the occasional _'weep-woo'_. Peter had many answers, but none that wouldn't be hurtful to hear. Hurting Mr. Stark was the last thing that he wanted to do, and so he remained silent.

He wanted May back, and putting aside that he was the only one to still have hope of that possibility, he knew that expressing that wish would mean rejecting the life that Mr. Stark had provided him. Because what he _really_ wanted was Queens. His apartment. His friends. May. But to have that again would mean undoing the foundation of something new, and though Peter hesitated to admit it, something he desperately wanted. He lamented, for a moment, how loyalty to one of his families could not be maintained without harming the other. Closely following that thought, he wondered when exactly he had come to think of the Starks as his family.

The sound of soft footsteps padding across the floor reached Peter's ears before they met Mr. Stark's and he was the first to break his focus away from the heavy tension. Ms. Potts enter the lab. Stopping in the doorway and leaning her shoulder against the frame, her eyes darted between himself and Mr. Stark.

"Dinner's ready upstairs."

Mr. Stark stood, but Peter didn't move. He looked back down to Hess's law, written in his messy handwriting, and felt acutely the two pairs of eyes on him.

"M'not hungry," he mumbled. "But thanks anyways."

No one said anything for a long moment, and Peter kept his head down. He didn't want to offend either of them, but with his stomach twisting in knots, he honestly didn't think he could eat even if he wanted to.

Plus, the thought of sitting through yet another uncomfortably tense dinner made him cringe. Solitude really was the most appealing option.

Ms. Potts slipper clad feet were the first to turn and leave, and a second later he heard Mr. Stark turn off the soldering iron. He remembered his very first trip to Mr. Stark's lab, and his lips pressed into a hard line to hide his smile.

' _First rule of my lab, Spiderling: Safety first. Second rule: Do as I say, not as I do.'_

On the whole, Peter had thought that Mr. Stark's safety precautions had greatly improved in the two years that they'd known each other. He didn't think he'd seen an iron or welding torch burning unattended since they'd moved in here.

The doors slid shut behind Mr. Stark, and Peter exhaled a breath that he'd been subconsciously holding. He propped his elbows on the table, and dropped his forehead into his palms. His fingers curled into his hair and the slight ache from the strain on his hair follicles was oddly grounding. He closed his eyes and focused on his breathing. In and hold for four, out for seven. It was the only useful piece of advice that the school counselor, Mr. Jenkins, had given him in all of their forced time together after Ben died.

In.

' _Don't be mad.'_ … two… three… four.

Out.

' _You got a home and people.' …_ three… four… five… six… seven.

In.

' _You have a family.'_ … two… three… four.

Out.

' _But I want my old one too.'_

His exhale hitched and the count got screwed up and before Peter knew it, he was blowing out a string of painful hiccups and gasps. After a few seconds of spluttering, he regained his breath and felt his heart racing harder than it had been before. He pulled his hands from his hair and slammed them down in frustration flat on the table. His glare met the empty space ahead of him.

Why the hell did he think that would work? Deep breathing helped with anxiety. Mr. Jenkins had said so. But this wasn't that. He was just… mad. It ate at him from the inside and what made it even worse was knowing that there wasn't even a direction that he could throw it in. He was just mad at everything and at the same time no one specifically.

Peter remembered the first time someone had called him 'happy-go-lucky'. He had been young, so he didn't think it meant much back then. Most little kids are happy, and Peter was just one of them. But he got older and more people had commented on his cheerful nature, and so he had to believe that there was some truth to that claim, even if he hadn't always been able to feel it colouring his life.

He felt it now in its absence.

To see such an integral feature of his character disappear was unsettling in a way that Peter couldn't describe. He was mad now, all the time. He thought that he'd spent more time being angry in these past few weeks than he had collectively in all of his other years of living, and the longevity of it scared him. Maybe there was no shirking it. Maybe he would always be at least a little mad, and maybe… this was just life now.

Peter blinked hard a few times, dispelling the mistiness there before it had a chance to fully form. At the far end of the lab sat the unfinished structure of Morgan's crib. At Mr. Stark's insistence, he had helped to weld the pieces together because _'this is a two-man job, Pete. Get your head out of that text book, we both know you're gonna ace the exam'_. At this point, it was only bare bones. Eventually, when Mr. Stark finished with the circuitry that would program it, the sensors in it would measure body temperature, heart rate, breathing, and a whole slew of other safety measures.

But machines could only go so far. Babies, as Peter had learned in his research, could sense more than what most people cared to recognize. How many months would Morgan live without sensing Peter's bad temper? Peter tried to keep it all neatly square away out of sight, but he knew that Mr. Stark and Ms. Potts caught glimpses of it from time to time (and those times were becoming more frequent as the days pressed on). Still, he was sure that they didn't know how deep his anger ran nor how it was consuming most of his waking hours. He never wanted Morgan to have to see him like that either. He deserved to be born into a family that was safe and happy, and Peter knew that he could only contribute to the former.

That wasn't enough.

The doors slide open again, startling Peter from his thoughts. Mr. Stark strode in holding a plate of dinner in one hand, cutlery in the other, and a bottle of water tucked under one arm. He walked with swift, purposeful steps as he came up to the lab table that they'd both been sitting at. He set everything down next to Peter's notebook and regarded him with a stern look.

"Don't starve yourself because you're mad at me."

That stung, and Peter dipped his head down. But he also knew that he deserved it.

"I'm not mad at you," he said truthfully, but even then, he could hear an unnecessary touch of steel in his voice.

"Could've fooled me."

He clapped Peter firmly on the shoulder and squeezed before letting go.

' _Weep?'_

Peter lip twitched upward as he glanced over at Dum-E. With a broom still clutched in his three-prong claw-hand and a clumsy pile of scraps surrounding his wheels, he seemed to be waiting with baited breath for his own reassurance.

"I'm not mad at you either, Dum-E."

' _Weep!'_

Peter laughed despite his darkened mood, and Mr. Stark let out his own surprised sounding laugh.

"When was the last time something wasn't Dum-E's fault?" Peter asked rhetorically, knowing that the answer was probably 'never'. "Poor guy's starved for praise."

"I called him a good boy once when he actually did something useful," Mr. Stark shrugged and the severity in his face softened. "But I'm pretty sure that was just a fluke. As you can see, the compliment went to his head and he's a total slacker now. Look at him."

Dum-E, in his excitement and confusion, started sweeping the broom outward instead of inward towards the pile and a couple of nuts and bolts scattered across the floor, rolling with little _clinks_ in different directions. The robot made a dejected _'woo'_ and bowed his head like a pouting toddler. The broom clattered to the floor out of his slack claw and Mr. Stark sighed.

"C'mon, seriously?" He muttered and rubbed a tired hand over his face. "Don't just sit there feeling sorry for yourself. Up and at 'em, Dum-E."

The robot perked up at the encouragement and, with its claw opening and closing in grabby motions, it wheeled itself in the direction of one of the bolts. A smile played at the corner of Peter's mouth and Mr. Stark, seemingly satisfied with his work, gave his shoulder one last parting squeeze.

"It's a big day tomorrow. Eat up," he said and turned to leave. Peter watched him go. The door slid shut and his knee, as if waiting for its cue, started bouncing.

The entrance exam was tomorrow. He'd have to be at Midtown bright and early. Normally, exams stressed him out, no matter how well prepared he was. The night before would always be spent with very little sleep as he anxiously stared at the metal rungs that crossed the underside of the top bunk bed. But for this, Peter could not measure up one ounce of nerves.

His knee bounced from energy, not anxiety, and with no one around to watch him he picked up his fork and plate and got to his feet. He paced while eating in hopes that movement would satiate his growing irritation. His ears grew overly attuned to the room and every little sound grated on him.

His fork clacked and scraped on ceramic.

Dum-E _weeped_ and _wooed._

Broom bristles brushed against the floor with hair raising intensity.

One of Dum-E's wheels snagged on a piece of metal, and the screeching sound it made evoked sudden irrepressible rage. His steps staggered at the sound and his plate fell from his jarred hands. He could've caught it but he didn't. Instead he watched with immense satisfaction as it fell the short distance and met a sudden stop. The ground shattered it like a tiny explosion into a hundred pieces. Splatters of food and shards of ceramic made a tight circumference of mess, and something about seeing such controlled destruction made dread bleed into Peter's anger.

 _It was an accident_ , he reasoned unconvincingly to himself as he turned to fetch Dum-E's broom. There were other brooms, but he wanted that one specifically to end the robot's annoying task. He cleaned up his mess, all the while trying to convince himself that he hadn't broken the plate on purpose. That wasn't him. He wasn't a _'get mad and break things'_ kind of a guy. He just wasn't.

' _But maybe you are now,'_ his traitorous brain hissed to him and Peter's throat tightened as he tipped the dust pan into the garbage. He took a deep breath, returned the broom to its corner, and turned to take in the lab.

What to do? He couldn't go upstairs. Not yet anyway. Not when he was still so… this. The worry he'd cause wasn't worth his impatience, so he'd distract himself until he was more like his old self. More classic, cheery Peter. Less angry Peter.

Bizarrely, He thought of MJ's doodle in his notebook - the one that sat securely in his book shelf upstairs - of Hulk-Peter smashing and flinging Flash across a New York City backdrop. He laughed and the heavy knot in his chest started to ease. But then he wondered if she had spotted something in him. Something unknown to him, but perceptible to others, just as his 'happy-go-lucky-ness' had been. Just as she had seen an obvious truth with Mr. Harrington, maybe she had seen something ugly in Peter. The thought sobered him as he wandered back to the lab table.

His notes lay open, but Peter knew them by heart and that was not at all helpful in the aim of distraction. His eyes flittered to a tablet that was discarded by Mr. Stark on another table. _He probably won't mind_ , Peter thought, and in any case he was desperate. There wasn't a password to protect it, which eased some of Peter's guilt, but then he saw the collection of medical studies and academic articles that were left open and his heart dropped.

The first one; _Reducing the Probability of Sudden Infant Death Syndrome (SIDS)._

His stomach bottomed out and his eyes snapped up to take in the unfinished crib. Returning back to the screen, they skimmed over:

… _usually occurs in infants less than a year old. Most frequently, cases of SIDS occur within the age range of two to four months… body unable to detect low oxygen or when a buildup of carbon dioxide occurs within the blood… Unable to ascertain a definitive cause but parents may take preventative measures to minimize the chances of infantile death…_

And his eyes snapped back up, because he was going to be sick if he kept reading. His hands tossed the tablet back on the table as if it had burned him and he took a step back.

He had to get out of here. Away from his worries and away from Mr. Stark's fear, which had now become Peter's as well. So much of life was uncontrollable. The realization kept coming back to him, and each time it rattled him to his core.

He needed control again.

He needed to do something that mattered.

He needed to do something good.

He needed Spider-Man… but he was upstairs.

A frown marred Peter's face as he considered his options. Really, there were only two; stay at home or go out, and he already knew that the first was intolerable. The anxiety would kill him if he stayed, and if he went upstairs, he already knew that Mr. Stark or Ms. Potts would insist on him staying inside.

Spider-Man was just a disguise anyway. Peter didn't need him in order to protect people. He had created him in the first place in order to maintain his normal life and to protect the people that he loved.

But he was standing in a multi-million dollar lab. Holograms projected dull blue light here and there and Iron Man suits sat in full display inside of glass cases. This wasn't temporary either. This was his life now, and the futility of safe-guarding something that could be snatched in an instant, with or without his protection, was dizzying.

Snapping spare web shooters on to his wrists, he yanked a spare hoodie off of the coat rack near the door. The sun was setting and soon the darkness of night would give him cover. He pulled the hood up and decided that it would do.

A tingling thrill shot through him as he took the elevator down to the lobby. He could be discovered or he could not, and the funny thing was he didn't really care either way.

* * *

For a couple hours, Peter paced the streets of the Upper East Side. The late evening sun beat down on him, making him swelter under his hoodie. Though he was extremely over-heated, he kept his hood up, his face shadowed, and his eyes focused as he scouted out any wrong-doing in the making.

The sun set at 8:30, and like clockwork the city's criminals came alive.

It wasn't a blatantly obvious shift, but after nearly three years of Spider-Man patrolling Peter had long since developed an eye for _seeing_ thinly veiled crimes. There was a difference between someone coincidentally walking in the same direction as someone else and someone who was _stalking_ an unsuspecting victim. It was all in their gait. New Yorkers were perpetually hurried and their fast and determined steps accentuate that. But the subtle stride of predators evoked a carefully hidden intensity that gave them away.

There was a woman strolling down the sidewalk. Her face was buried in her phone and the glow of it completely captivated her attention. Trailing ten feet behind her, a man was following while trying to appear like he wasn't.

The woman looked up briefly to get her bearings, and noting the apartment building next to her, turned inside of its underground parking garage. Peter hastened to catch up to the pair as the man followed. Peter entered the garage a few seconds later, and the dim orange lighting lent everything in it an eerie shadow. Two pairs of footsteps echoed ahead. One pair of clacking heels echoed much louder than the soft soled sneakers. The clacking heels faltered and then started to clack faster, and Peter knew that the woman had become aware of her stalker.

The second pair of footsteps started walking faster too, and then so did Peter's. He rounded the last corner. Amid the rows of parked cars, the woman ran as fast as her tall heels would let her. Taking long running strides, Peter easily caught up to the stalker. He didn't give him time to notice him as his hand wrapped tightly around the back of his neck. His grip held firmly enough that the man couldn't twist his head around to see behind him.

"What…?" he squeaked with the desperation of a trapped mouse. Peter had no sympathy for him.

The woman turned around at the sound. Her purse bounced against her hip and one of her fists had her keys laced through her knuckles. Her wide eyes took in the struggling man and then drifted over his shoulder to met Peter's gaze. Raw panic radiated from her, and Peter knew that fear had paralyzed her to the spot. He jerked his head in the direction of the door leading into the building and he hoped that she had the key card to get inside.

"Get outta here! Run!"

His voice echoed on the concrete walls, and the sound seemed to have snapped her out of her panic. She turned in the direction of the door and sprinted towards it. She fumbled her keys and dropped them, but she moved with purpose like this was her home. Peter breathe a relieved sigh. He figured that a security guard would show up in a minute or two. He had to be quick.

"Let go of me!" The man screamed as Peter slammed his front against a wall. Careful to keep out of his line of sight, he webbed him to the wall with his head turned and pasted to the concrete in the opposite direction of where Peter would be leaving.

"You shouldn't stalk women," Peter advised, unable to part from a criminal without adding his sarcastic two-cents. "Someone might get the wrong idea about you."

His phone vibrated in the pocket of his hoodie (he had learned his lesson from the time Ned had nearly gotten him killed at an arms deal. When out patrolling: always set to vibrate or silent). He didn't need to look at the call display. These days, there was only one person who called him.

"Gotta go," he added cheekily and bolted down the aisle of the parking garage. He didn't answer the call until he was outside and strolling casually down the street.

"Hey, Mr. Stark."

"Where are you?"

Instantly, Peter bristled at the hard edge in his voice. His shoulders tensed as he came to a stop in the middle of the sidewalk.

"Ummm…" he glanced up at the street signs in the intersection ahead of him, "West 96th and Broadway."

"Okay," Mr. Stark drawled. "Lemme just go ahead and ask the _real_ question here: _Why_ are you at West 96th and Broadway?"

Peter frowned at his demanding tone and irritation spike through him with startling force.

"Just 'cause," he mumbled, tight lipped. The only reason to lie was to save himself the headache of explaining why he was patrolling out of his suit, and that was more than enough reason for him. Still, it was strange that Mr. Stark was acting as if he hadn't been aware that Peter had been gone for hours. His frown deepened as a thought crossed his mind. "Didn't patchwork FRIDAY tell you that I left?"

All was silent on Mr. Stark's end, except for his aggravated breathing, but it was answer enough for Peter. There were no patchwork FRIDAYs installed on the lab's doors because they weren't really meant to be a security system. Their sole purpose was to keep tabs on Peter. Although he had always been aware that was a large part of their purpose, to realize that that was their only job left a bitter taste in his mouth.

"Look, just get home, kid. It's late."

"You've never cared before if I went out late!" Peter snapped and felt the ear pressed against his phone grow hot.

"Yeah, because I don't wanna be one of those parents who puts a leash on their kid!" Mr. Stark snapped back. Peter's grip on his phone tightened and it took all of his effort to not crush it. Mr. Stark hadn't spoken to him like that in a while. He'd nearly forgotten how infuriating it was to be belittled. He heard Mr. Stark exhale a long, measured breath before continuing in a controlled voice: "This is different. You got an exam tomorrow and you need sleep, so get home _now_."

"Fine," he spat and then hung up. A second passed as he stood stock-still, rooted to the pavement. His breath came out short and shallow. Heat pumped through his veins with every steady beat of his heart. His indignation swallowed him up and for several long moments, he couldn't think of anything at all.

The cool night air lent some clarity, and after a few moments of deeply breathing it in, his head cleared and the gravity of the situation struck him with sickening force. His reflection stared at him in the dark screen of his phone, and he realized what he'd just done.

He became cold all at once. The air turned his sweaty skin clammy and Peter's stomach dropped.

' _What's wrong with me?'_ , he wondered miserably, not for the first time and surely not the last. Despite the many reoccurrences of the thought, the fear that accompanied it was always fresh, because he was changing and he had no control over it. He wasn't a break things kind of guy, just as he wasn't a hang up on his… one of the most important people in his life kind of guy. He was happy-go-lucky Peter. He went out of his way daily to save people from harm. With creeping dread, it occurred to him that it shouldn't take daily affirmations to reinforce in him something that was supposed to come naturally.

Someone bumped in to his back. Their grouching grumbles to _'get outta the way, damn kid'_ was enough to jar him from his train of thought. _Time to face the music_ , he thought dismally. A shiver went up his spine and he buried his hands into his pockets. He felt the weight of his web shooters rested heavily on his wrists. They would get him home faster, from this distance, five minutes tops. He reminded himself that the longer he waited, the worse it would be when he finally showed up. Walking would take around half an hour.

But he wasn't brave. So he turned on his heel and walked.

He moved numbly through the streets that he now knew by heart. His head, as if weighted, bowed low as he got close to his apartment building.

In the elevator, the one whose private use was for the penthouse tenants, Peter had the foresight to slip the web shooters off his wrists. He hid them in his pockets and pulled the hood back from his head as the elevator doors opened into the hallway outside the penthouse's front door. With it came the muffled sound of Mr. Stark's distant voice.

"… taking so long? What if he ran away?"

"He's not going to run away over this," Ms. Potts replied with an air of tired repetition. Peter flinched and pressed his back against the hallway wall.

"You don't know that. You didn't hear him on the phone, Pep. He sounded…" he trailed off and sighed sadly. Peter imagined that he was probably running his hand over his face. "I don't know. Maybe I shouldn't have gotten so pissy with him. That was wrong of me, huh? Like, I'm the adult here, I'm not supposed to get mad at stupid stunts like that. Yeah, I think that might've been my bad."

Peter's head lowered again. He chewed his lip while his eyes picked out imagined shapes and patterns in the beige carpet.

"Maybe," Ms. Potts agreed frankly. "I don't think you're wrong to be angry. He was very rude to you. But I also don't think Peter's wrong to be annoyed either. What we need is better communication between the three of us to establish consistent rules and boundaries-."

"Ugh. Spare me, Pep. I'll break out in hives."

Peter clenched his eyes shut for a moment, as though he were trying to hide from his rising guilt. Inside he could hear the underlying faint voice of a news anchor on the tv.

" _As you can see behind me, Tom, the boats are returning now, down the Ikamva River from the Warrior Falls."_

"All I'm saying is if you're going to run a loose ship, don't be surprised when things like this happen."

Summoning his courage, Peter strode the last couple of steps to the front door. His hand gripped the doorknob, crossing the heat and motion sensor barrier. Peter knew that FRIDAY had alerted them of his presence as they both became unnaturally quiet while he turned the doorknob.

He timidly stepped inside, but didn't see them right away. When he turned to the living room, Mr. Stark and Ms. Potts' equally concerned eyes were staring at him over the back of the couch. Behind them, the tv displayed the news anchor, a woman dressed up in glossy professional clothing that seemed out of place for the jungle landscape and riverbank that she stood on.

"Hi, Peter," Ms. Potts said, bring his attention back to them.

"Hey," Peter mumbled awkwardly and shifted his weight from one foot to the other. For a moment, no one said anything, save for the news anchor.

" _Each boat, as we know, carries representatives and tributes from each one of the Wakandan Tribes, barring of course the Golden tribe, as its sole member, the Former Queen Mother, has reportedly elected to not attend the coronation ceremony-"_

Peter couldn't help himself. The news anchor stole his attention. His eyes flitted back to the tv, taking in the headline at the bottom of the screen:

' _End of a Dynasty: King M'Baku Succeeds the Wakandan Throne'_

"Kid?"

Peter tore his gaze from the tv and back to Mr. Stark, who seemed to be growing increasingly annoyed… probably because Peter was dawdling.

"Right. Bed. I'm going, I'm going," he muttered and turned to leave.

" _-wonder what this change of power might mean for Wakanda's future. Never before has a monarch sat on the throne who wasn't a member of the Royal Family and a direct descendant of the original Black Panther. The Jabari Tribe's past exclusion from all forms of Wakandan politics, including the Royal Council, has undoubtedly exacerbated tensions between-"_

"No, wait, kid." Mr. Stark muted the tv and Peter stopped in his tracks. He turned back to his guardians and was met twice over with impatient looks of varying intensity. "We need to talk about-"

"Rules, boundaries, and hives," Peter interrupted and Mr. Stark's brows raised a fraction. He didn't think he could stand to hear the speech all over again. "I know, I heard."

Mr. Stark and Ms. Potts shared a brief stunned look that Peter was deeply familiar with. He'd seen it on May and Ned's faces as well whenever they were reminded of just how good his senses were now. Mr. Stark shook off his surprise quicker than Ms. Potts.

"Okay, I'll cut to the chase then." Mr. Stark leaned his forearm casually against the back of the couch and rubbed his free hand over his eyes. "I'm tired of getting notifications at the crack of dawn that you're just getting back in. I was thinking that a midnight curfew would be pretty lenient." A beat of silence drew out, and Peter realized when they both stared at him with matching expectant looks, that he was waiting for an answer. A smattering of flustered nerves hit him when Mr. Stark prompted: "What do you think? Does that work?"

"Yeah," he said and was dismayed to hear his voice crack in the middle. He grimaced, Mr. Stark smirked, and Ms. Potts, with a roll of her eyes, lightly swatted Mr. Stark's arm. It was strange how something so small could lighten the mood so thoroughly, but it did and with it, Peter found it easier to add: "Sorry for, y'know, being kind of a dick."

An unimpressed look settled over Mr. Stark's face, and Peter's heart rate ticked up.

"There's no 'kind of' about it, kid. You _were_ being a dick." Peter's mouth pressed into a hard line, and Mr. Stark's stern air suddenly gave way to his usual light and joking nature. "But it's okay. My tolerance of dick-ish behavior from first time offenders is pretty high. Plus, I've said and done way worse things in my… less than considerate days. Isn't that right Pep?"

The incredulous look that Ms. Potts shot him seemed to question his overall competence as a person. _'Why are you bringing that up now?'_ , it said, and it was almost enough to make Peter laugh, but not quite. He found his attention straying again, back to the image of the anchor standing on the riverbank that lead to Wakandan sacred land…

… And from a great distance, the memory of MJ's words reverberated in his ears.

"Now that we're all on the same page, just try to be a bit more mindful of our time your responsibilities. That's all we're asking." Ms. Potts wrapped it all up neatly, she was good at that, and Peter nodded numbly in response.

"Can I go to bed now?" he asked weakly, suddenly feeling the entirety of the day on his shoulders. Mr. Stark and Ms. Potts both frowned in that concerned parental way that Peter had seen too many times on too many different faces. Without waiting for their permission, he left.

"Baby steps," he heard Ms. Potts murmur to Mr. Stark. "We'll get there."

Mr. Stark unmuted the tv as Peter closed his bedroom door. He didn't even bother to turn on the lights as he toed off his shoes and shed his hoodie. Feeling his way to bed, he collapsed into it and rolled over on to his side. He stared off into the empty space and slowly, his eyes became used to the darkness. Silhouettes of his furniture emerged like silent companions and Peter's mind hurtled back in time.

In the summer of 2016, Wakanda had opened up to the world.

In September of 2017, Midtown had added a new course to the electives list: Wakandan history.

As predicted, everyone had been _all over that_ , and the class was filled with insane speed. When MJ had sauntered into Chemistry class, looking thoroughly pleased with herself, Peter knew it could only mean one thing.

' _You got in? Nice!'_

' _Yeah, I might've suggested to principal Morita that seats should be prioritized for students of African descent.'_

' _Is the black half of your family Wakandan?'_

' _No, they're Nigerian, but that's not the point. This is one of those times when I feel no guilt whatsoever for dusting off the race card and hitting up the administration with a bingo.'_

' _The race card?'_

' _To be used sparingly, otherwise it loses its power.'_

' _I'm more interested in the technological side of Wakanda's information reserve, but send me copies of your course readings, would you? Any history book that includes genetically enhanced panther people has gotta be a real page turner.'_

' _Sure thing, Loser. Did you know that Wakanda's the only African nation except for Liberia to never be colonized? This class gonna be interesting AF.'_

Of course, Peter hadn't _really_ been all that interested in history, but for the sake of having things in common with MJ he did the extra readings. During their coffee… meetings (dates? His memory remained hopeful and possibly delusional), Peter had watched transfixed as MJ's eyes would light up. She was the only person that he'd known to get so excited about current events and social justice causes… and he had been completely endeared by her.

She would've been blown away by what was happening now. A shift in monarchy, and by the Jabari tribe no less. She wouldn't have been able to shut up about it. And Peter would've sat and watched and let her talk and he would've enjoyed every moment in her company…

This was so unfair.

Peter punched his pillow angrily, trying to plump it into a more comfortable shape. It was no use. He tossed and turned as frustration welled up and heated his insides.

Everyone was moving on, even Wakanda. The nation had always seemed so strong and untouchable. A technological paradise wrapped up in impenetrable vibranium. But even they were cutting their losses.

Replacement permeated every corner of the world. There was no escaping it. No one seemed to even be trying anymore.

Finally, Peter pulled his pillow out from under his head. He placed it over his face. Curling his fingers around the top edge and holding it down with his forearms, he felt the fluffy texture fill the crevices and grooves of his face. He wanted to scream but he didn't. That would surely get Mr. Stark's attention. Instead he threw the pillow across his room and resigned himself to another sleepless night.

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fun Fact: according to google translate Ikamva is 'destiny' in Xhosa. Any native speakers of the language, please don't come for me if that's wrong.


	15. Boil

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content warning: mentions of suicide.

"Cell phones off during the exam! And I mean _off_ , not set to silent or vibrate! All bags, backpacks, and purses are to be left at the front of the room!"

The order, repeated for the fifth time since Peter had walked into his school's gym, came from an unfamiliar man standing at the front of the gym. He wore a grey suit with a pink pocket square. A thin pencil mustache dusted his upper lip and he carried himself with an air of self-importance despite his young age and regrettable choice in facial hair.

Peter really hoped he was temporary, like maybe a representative of the school board sent to oversee the entrance exams. If he was a new full-time teacher at Midtown, senior year was already looking bleak.

Pencil 'stache's words rolled off his sluggish mind like oil on water. Peter was running on little sleep, as was typical of any exam day, and at 7:50 in the morning he could still feel the faint remains of sleepy fog clinging to his brain. The gym was organized with rows of folding tables and chairs (two chairs per table with a wide gap between them to discourage cheating) and he sat in one of the middle rows. His elbow was propped on the table with his cheek smooshed against his fist while he stared vacantly out the open double doors. For the past ten minutes, he had watched as small groups of students entered through those doors in odd spurts. Some Peter knew, other's he didn't. His heart leapt whenever he recognized someone's face, despite having never spoken more than two words to them.

The bright sun shine outside made Peter's eyes water and the scent of freshly cut grass wafted in with the breeze. Framed in the doorway, Peter could see the field. It had been mowed. The shoes were gone. If Peter had been living under a rock since April, he wouldn't have guessed that anything of any great importance had happened. His stomach twisted painfully as he thought of how easy it was to cover up and move on…

"Hi, Peter."

Peter turned his head forward and dropped his arm on the table. Mr. Harrington held a couple stacks of tests and scantron sheets in his arm. He and a couple other Midtown teachers were milling around, distributing tests on tables. He slipped one dauntingly thick test with the blank back side facing up, and one scantron in front of Peter.

"Hey, Mr. Harrington," Peter said with enthusiasm that surprised him. Mr. Harrington wasn't even close to being Peter's favorite teacher, but he was _here_ and alive, and Peter felt irrepressible happiness at seeing him again.

"Are you having a good summer break?" Mr. Harrington asked with disarming cheerfulness. Dumbstruck, all Peter could do was stare stupidly at him.

"No," he said bluntly. "No, I'm not."

Abashedly, Mr. Harrington's eyes dropped. His grip on the tests in his arm grew tighter. The smile he shot Peter was tight and uncomfortable, but at least it was genuine.

"Sorry, of course not. That was a silly thing to ask. Safe small talk is deeply ingrained in us teachers." Peter nodded his head, expecting that to be the end of it. At the other end of the table, the boy sitting there sat up straighter. His hand drifted across the table in anticipation of the test, but Mr. Harrington didn't seem to notice. Instead he nodded thoughtfully to himself and continued: "Yeah, I lost my wife. I know it's been hard on everybody."

Peter's shoulders bunched uncomfortably. Why was he sharing this with him of all people? It felt grossly inappropriate for him to hear something so private, but then again…

Peter remembered the drawing. The dog doodle of no real dog. The lack of personal items on Mr. Harrington's desk. Maybe Peter was now the person who knew Mr. Harrington better than anyone still living. Just as Mr. Stark now held the longest living memory of Peter, despite only knowing him for two years. Maybe he was now that person to Mr. Harrington.

God, he really hoped he wasn't. There had to be _someone_ else. If for no other reason, Peter really didn't want to hold that sort of significance to a person that he didn't even really like to begin with.

"You should get a dog," he blurted out before he could stop himself. Mr. Harrington's eyebrows rose and he nodded to himself again as he moved to hand a test to the other boy at the table.

"S'not a bad idea," Peter heard him mumble to himself as he walked away. Peter watched him go, and he silently marveled at the change that MJ could inspire even when she was long gone. He wondered what she would've thought of it. She would probably be pleased while pretending to not care.

"Hey, Peter Parker!"

Peter sat straighter and his head snapped to attention. At the far end of the gym and ahead of him by a few rows, Gwen Stacy's short, blond pigtails bobbed from the force her enthusiastically waving hand. Her broad grin, which Peter thought was entirely too perky for this time of day, grew even wider as she took in Peter's cocked head and furrowed brow.

"Gwen?"

"Any talking will result in an automatic zero on the exam!" Pencil 'stache announced loudly to the room while staring sternly at Gwen. She shot him a sweet smile.

"Good thing there's still five minutes until it starts then."

Pencil 'stache face turned sour and Peter had to cough to cover up his short, surprised laugh. The boy sitting at the other end of Gwen's table made a shushing noise at her. A few weak chuckles from other students echoed off the walls and Pencil 'stache's frown deepened.

"Let's _not_ find out if it's possible to get detention before you're even enrolled in the school," the boy muttered under his breath, low enough that only Gwen (and Peter) could hear.

"Oh, c'mon. It's just irresponsible not to knock a middle management tyrant off of his high horse. Especially when he's clearly power drunk," She hissed back. Peter covered his smile with his hand. The boy turned to look at her, but Peter could only see the back of his head.

"Pick your battles. I don't want to roll up here solo on the first day of school because you lack impulse control."

Gwen shot him an affronted look that had Peter stifling a laugh behind his hands.

"You will have three hours to complete the exam! If you finish before that time, you may leave quietly through those doors!" Pencil 'stache pointed to the double doors. Ms. Dell was nudging the wooden wedge door jams out of the way with her toes and the doors fell shut. "You may turn over the exam and begin now!"

Peter heard the flurry of paper flipping as he turned over his own. He walked his fingers over the edges of the pages, doing a quick page count. His heart jump started.

Eight pages printed front and back except for the final page which was one-sided. Fifteen freaking pages. _The school district's run by sadists_ , he thought as he furiously scribbled his name and student number at the top of the page. He didn't even need his enhanced hearing to hear the collective groans, gasps, and a couple of choked sobs.

But it didn't take him long to fall into the rhythmic work; question and answer. Time suspended in the haze of pure science. He was in his element.

* * *

At 10: 50, with ten minutes to spare, Peter gave his test one last appraising skim through. Satisfied with his answers, he stood and handed in his test to Pencil 'stache. His polite smile was met with a look of dull apathy that Peter recoiled from. He collected his backpack from the front of the room and muttered a soft _'bye, sir'_ to Mr. Harrington as he passed by him. His surprised smile and appreciative nod made Peter feel light, but then a snarky _'shush'_ was thrown at his back by Pencil 'stache. Peter's step faltered for a second as he pressed his eyes closed. He repressed the urge to make a _shushing_ noise of his own. _Please don't be a new teacher_ , he pleaded silently as he opened his eyes again. As he neared the doors, he saw a girl who was sniffling with tears running down her cheeks. Her hands flipped through pages in a frenzy, and Peter's heart went out to her. He wanted to tell her that it would be okay, but he didn't lest he be _shushed_ again.

He pushed open one of the double doors and the sudden exposure to sunlight blinded him. Tears rapidly filled his eyes and he furiously blinked to clear them. He wandered over to the parking lot. Mr. Stark had said, when he had dropped him off, that he'd pick him up around eleven.

As he approached the lot, he saw Gwen sitting on the hood of a car. She was decked out in varying shades of light blue today, and everything was devoid of wrinkles or stains. It was enough to make Peter feel slightly bum-like in his science pun t-shirt, which was _clean_ but having fished it out of a pile on his bedroom floor, it was somewhat shabby. The same boy that she'd been talking to earlier stood at the driver's side. Now that he was standing, Peter could see how tall he was. He was just as well dressed as Gwen, but in a different sort of way. Wrapped up in a dark blazer, he carried himself with an air of confidence and formality even in such a casual setting. He leaned with his forearms against the roof of the car. His wrists were slack and a cigarette sat pinched between the knuckles of his index and middle fingers.

"… know I got that part about exponential decay wrong," Peter heard the boy say hurriedly. His body stood very still but his voice crackled with stress.

"I'm sure it's fine," Gwen said kindly, albeit with a hint of exhaustion. Peter recognized the vicious worry-reassurance cycle running between them, and he wondered how long they had been looping through it.

"Number thirty-six, the one about the decay rate of copper, I put down that the amount of the half-life would be 1,355 grams, but that's wrong." The boy rambled, pausing to inhale deeply. Smoke seeped out of his parted lips before he blew out the bulk.

"So what if you got it wrong? It's one question." Gwen gave a carefree shrug that had no effect on the boy.

"It was supposed to be 1,500 grams," he muttered and his head dipped lower. Dark brown bangs fell into his eyes. "I _knew_ that too. What the hell was I thinking?"

"Relax," Gwen sighed. He barked a dry, humorless laugh. The sound made Peter's stomach swoop uneasily.

"You've known me for four years. When have I ever been relaxed?" He looked up, and Peter was close enough to see the calculating scrutiny in them. Gwen sighed again and glanced absentmindedly around the lot. Her eyes caught Peter's and she looked almost relieved. "God, Dad'll kill me if I have to repeat a grade-"

"You'll be fine. You're smart, remember?" She said while waving Peter over. To his surprise, his feet moved him forward. Why he felt compelled to join them in spite of his apprehension was a mystery to him.

The boy finally noticed Peter coming closer as he neared the passenger side of the car. He took another drag from his cigarette and the harsh, toxic smell of it made Peter's nose reflexively wrinkle. He quickly smoothed his features so as to not offend, but the boy noticed and an annoyed frown pulled subtly at his mouth. It clashed with Gwen's welcoming smile, and Peter, unsure of whether he should stay, kicked a pebble of asphalt with his toe.

"I'm not stalking you," Gwen teased, and Peter glanced up again. "This is purely coincidental."

Just like that, the mood lightened. Even the boy, though clearly confused, smirked at her tone. Peter, feeling more at ease, asked what he had been wondering since he heard her call his name.

"What are you doing here? I thought you said that you go to Brooklyn Visions Academy?"

"We did," Gwen confirmed, gesturing between herself and the boy. "But Visions is a charter school and the government funding got cut."

"Oh."

That would explain why there were so many students in his grade that he didn't recognize. With all of the changes happening in the world, school closures must've slipped through the cracks for local news coverage. At least, Peter hadn't heard of it despite his near obsessive upkeep with current events. In comparison to other local breaking news, this was relatively minor, but still it felt strange to be left out of the loop. Especially when this particular loop affected him directly.

"I would've mentioned it before, but you seemed distracted," Gwen added lightly. Peter heard an echo of the concern she'd worn at Central Park. The boy's narrowed eyes darted between them, but then Gwen's sunny disposition returned. She threw up her hands and asked rhetorically: "Why have a bunch of half-empty schools when there could be a few running at full capacity?"

"I guess that makes sense…" Peter mused, though he felt an odd twinge of sympathy for them. It was difficult for him to return to Midtown without his friends, but at least he had the option of returning.

"Midtown has the best SAT scores of all the local STEM schools," the boy's bored voice drawled. "So it gets to stay open and rake in the concentrated funding." He tapped his cigarette and the lengthened ashy tip fell to the ground. Gwen's face scrunched up in annoyance.

"That's hardly fair with Peter skewing the student average." She griped. Her good-natured tone was sullied with a tinge of bitterness, which Peter found to be completely unwarranted.

"I thought you said you were over the decathlon thing!" he exclaimed, and her frown became more pronounced at the reminder. "You said you don't hold grudges-"

"I _know_ what I said," she grumbled. The boy narrowed his eyes in suspicion.

"Decathlon thing?" His eyes snapped wide as a flicker of understanding crossed his face. "Oh, you mean the winning streak demolishment of 2017?"

Peter blinked.

Gwen looked like she'd been shot.

"You named it?" Incredulous betrayal laced her words and the boy's eyes lit up with the same smug satisfaction that Peter had seen in Gwen's a few times.

"Yes."

"What's this _demolishment_ business?" she blustered. "It was a hiccup at best! Don't exaggerate."

The boy eyed her evenly, though Peter could see a hint of a smirk pulling at the corner of his mouth.

"Demolishment is both appropriate and memorable. And it's hardly an exaggeration when I had to listen to your whining for over a week. Anything that causes such extensive bitching deserves to be named for the sake of posterity."

Peter laughed, though he knew he shouldn't. Gwen threw him a warning look, which managed to shut him up. She drummed her fingers on the hood of the car.

"My God, you're so dramatic," she huffed and with a roll of her eyes, shook off her sullen mood. "To answer your question: Yes, that's the one," she jerked her thumb at Peter, "and this is the demolisher." The boy raised a brow at her. Her expression became unsure. Brows pinching together she muttered: "Demolisher? Demolitionist?" She made an aggravated groan and shrugged. "Whatever. Stop nitpicking. I just wrote a three hour long test. You can still hear bacon sizzling." She touched the tip of her index finger to her temple and twisted it back and forth like a drill bit.

The boy smiled at her and the glimpse of unmitigated happiness that Peter saw there made him feel like he was witnessing something private. The boy's face subdued itself blandly and he turned back to Peter.

"Clearly, she's over it."

For a second, no one said anything. Peter gripped his backpack strap and hiked it up higher. After a moment, Gwen's groan broke the silence and her head fell back.

"The commute to school is gonna suck," she moaned. Peter winced sympathetically. He actually lived much closer to the school now than he did before, but he still wasn't looking forward to the public transit commute every weekday. At least Gwen and her friend had a car. "Seriously we're gonna have to make this drive from Brooklyn 190 more times, give or take a snow day or stat holiday," she whined to the boy, who didn't seem at all bothered.

"What'cha gonna do about it?" He raised his nearly burnt out cigarette to his mouth.

"Home school?" Peter suggested with a shrug.

"Not at _my_ home," He muttered ruefully around the stubby yellow bit and took another long drag. His tone was worrisome and Peter's first instinct was to ask what he meant by that and if he was okay. But he didn't really know him well enough to ask something so personal. Actually, he realized with a jolt, he didn't know him at all. Not even his name.

"Ummm, I-I'm Peter," he stuttered. The amused look that Gwen sent him, coupled with the boy's passive expression, made Peter absentmindedly grind his toe into the pavement. The boy's face didn't change, but his eyes took on a somewhat disparaging quality.

"Uh-huh. Peter Parker, I managed to put that together myself."

Oh, yeah. Gwen had kinda yelled his name earlier. A flush started to creep up his cheeks and Gwen shot the boy a withering glance. He remained unaffected by it, and she turned back to Peter.

"This is Harry," she said while nodding at the boy. "Sometimes he's amicable and other times he's down-right pleasant, but today he is neither." She smirked and Peter felt some of his nerves melt away. "And you, my friend, really need to work on your introductions. I hate to break it to you, but you finesse those into conversation with the ease of a dry slip-n-slide."

Harry laughed and Peter heard a hint of malice in it. He was no stranger to being made fun of, but the disparity between Gwen's teasing and Harry's open mocking was glaringly obvious. Peter, a little flustered but not unbearably so, felt his cheeks heat up.

"Oh. Uh… y-yeah. Okay," he mumbled, at a loss for words. Gwen laughed and the sound made an infectious smile spread over his face. He heard tires crunch over rough pavement. Looking to the parking lot entrance, Peter saw Mr. Stark's car swerve in.

"Is that your ride?" Gwen asked. Peter nodded, taking a step away. He waved over his shoulder as Gwen called: "See you in September!"

With his hand on the door handle, Peter hesitated for a split second. _My friend_ , she'd called him. That seemed… premature. They barely knew each other. A sharp, unpleasant feeling shot through him. One that made his heart seize in protest. He bit his lip and threw a glance over his shoulder. Gwen had already turned back to Harry. Under her attention once again, his lingering distaste faded from his face.

Huh. So she was one of _those_ people. The kind who could see potential friends in most people, and then _would_ actually befriend them. The kind that approached people without over thinking it. Peter found that sort of confidence to be elusive and intimidating at the best of times and terrifying at the worst. Ned and MJ hadn't exactly been the most social of people either.

Gwen's presumption irritated him, he realized as he pulled open the passenger door, though he couldn't exactly say why. Dropping himself into his seat and shut the door firmly, he glanced up and was met with Mr. Stark's knowing look. Confused, Peter looked around nervously, even though he was the only other person in the car. He curled his arms around the backpack on his lap.

"What?"

"Got yourself a girlfriend already?" Peter's eyes widened and he started to stammer out denials, which just made Mr. Stark smile wider like he had confirmed a suspicion. He nodded his head appreciatively and added: "Not bad, kid. You haven't even officially started senior year."

"She's not my girlfriend!" he finally managed to get out. "Jeez, Mr. Stark."

"You sure?" Mr. Stark shot him a quick, teasing look as he turned the car down the aisle for the exit. "Your rosy cheeks tell a different story."

Peter suddenly became aware of the residual blush colouring his face. Traitorously, it darkened at the observation.

"Mr. Stark…" he whined. There was a hidden plea in his voice that went ignored.

"She seems to be real chummy with tall, dark, and brooding over there," Peter shot one last glance at the pair as Mr. Stark turned on to the street. "Better watch out."

Peter rolled his eyes. Irritation crackled under his skin and he tried his best to suppress it. Mr. Stark was just kidding around, Peter knew that, but still he found himself wondering from time to time why he even wasted his breath speaking.

"Are you done?" he asked flatly.

"For now." They stopped at a red light and Mr. Stark sent him a serious look. "If you start hanging out with those two, you better not pick up smoking."

"I won't."

"Seriously, if destroying your alveoli is a requirement for running in their circle, don't. I hear cancer can put a real damper on your life expectancy."

"Okay."

"Just say no. That's all I'm saying."

Peter was tempted to roll his eyes again but while Mr. Stark was watching him, he didn't dare.

"My healing factor would probably take care of it anyway," he said as the light turned green. The car jolted forward for a split second before the speed evened out.

"Peter!"

Wide eyed and shoulders creeping up to his ears, he threw up his hands in surrender.

"I'm joking!"

"You better be!" Mr. Stark shot him a brief hard look. "Take it from someone who knows, kid. It's hard to shake off a dependency on a substance."

Oh.

Peter _did_ feel bad for forgetting about that. To be fair, Mr. Stark's struggle with alcoholism wasn't a frequent topic of discussion (or really, something that they'd _ever_ talked about), but still that was an insensitive joke for him to make.

The air grew heavy. Peter chewed his bottom lip and Mr. Stark sighed.

"Y'know, all this talk of cancer is starting to put me off of ice cream."

Peter perked up.

"Ice cream?"

Mr. Stark smirked and flicked on the turn signal.

"Thought that might grab your attention," he said with a smile. "After that, I was thinking we'd ride the sugar high and get started on a new project."

Peter frowned.

"What about Morgan's crib?"

"Oh, that's still a work in progress, but I've moved it to the back burner." Mr. Stark scoffed then. "No baby of mine's gonna sleep in some subpar, ill-equipped, store-bought crib. But we still got half a year before that's needed. I know the intricacies of nesting aren't exactly riveting to teenaged boys."

Peter's brow pinched. He saw Mr. Stark's hands grip the steering wheel tighter.

"I mean, no not really, but-"

"We'll build something fun," he rushed out as though Peter hadn't spoken. "Something that we _want_ and not something that we _need_. I promised you controlled chaos, didn't I?"

"Yeah, I guess you did-"

"So, well do just that," he turned into the parking lot of a Dairy Queen. Killing the engine, he turned to look at Peter with bright, excited eyes. The intensity slammed into him full force and he nearly flinched. "We'll go wreck the lab and build something that Pepper will definitely disapprove of. I don't know about you, but my inner mechanic has been itching to build something stupid and unnecessary but undeniably awesome. Something that doesn't really need to exist but does because I say so."

Peter blinked. Mr. Stark's energy was tangible and he knew that he should be excited too. That's usually how this worked. Normally, he was susceptible to this sort of high energy. It would suck him in without fail, but now… there was a rift. A chasm to cross. On the other side, the thing that he would be putting all this effort in to getting to… it didn't evoke the same excitement that it used to. It was exhausting just to think of it.

"Seems messy," he muttered, not knowing exactly what he was referring to. Mr. Stark's brows knitted together in the middle and his eyes took on a desperate glint.

"That's what we got Dum-E for. It might take him a million years, but he gets the job done eventually." His joke came out all wrong. Too tense. Too forced. Peter frowned again. "And since when do you care about being messy?"

_He needs this_ , he realized. This wasn't for Peter at all. For whatever reason, Mr. Stark needed chaotic fun like how they used to have before the world fell apart.

_Play along._

Quietly and with little conviction, the order came to him. With some strain, Peter smiled as best that he could.

"You calling me a slob?"

Some of the tension left Mr. Stark's body as his deadpan eyes settled over Peter.

"If it walks like a duck, and quacks like a duck, and _constantly_ fails to put my tools back where they belong…"

Peter sighed through his nose. He couldn't argue with that, and Mr. Stark knew it. He _was_ bad about leaving things lying around. It wasn't his fault, he just got distracted easily.

_Play along!_

The command came a little more firmly that time. Peter undid his seat belt to busy his hands and avoid Mr. Stark's gaze. When he looked back up, Mr. Stark's poorly disguised apprehension greeted him. It made his stomach twist, and wildly, he blurted out the first idea that came to him.

"Well, I've always wondered how lightsabers would work in real life."

Mr. Stark was already shaking his head before he'd completed his sentence.

"Nope. Next."

"Why you gotta hate on Star Wars, Mr. Stark."

He looked mildly offended at that. Peter laughed, albeit weakly, and he was surprised by how naturally the sound came.

"I _don't_ hate on Star Wars. I'll have you know that the original trilogy - you know, the _good_ ones, - were thoroughly enjoyed in the days of my youth. But, y'know, I got older and out-grew them. Then George Lucas couldn't tell when was a good time to call it quits and now we live in a world with Jar Jar Binks." He shook his head, thoroughly dismayed, and then made a visible effort to refocus himself. "Look, I just want you to pick a project that won't slice off and cauterize a couple fingers by the end of the week."

Well, that was a fair prediction. Not that Peter would ever admit it. He had his pride as Spider-Man to think of after all.

"Enhanced senses, super sweet balance and agility, weirdly accurate _danger_ tingles; do these things mean nothing to you?"

"They don't when pitted against roughly 1.7 gigajoules of thermal energy. Pick something else."

* * *

Over blizzards, they had come to a compromise: the little lightsaber bread knife from _Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy_. It wouldn't run hot enough to permanently maim a person… just bread. Peter had expressed his worry that it would make the bread catch fire instead of toasting it, but Mr. Stark had dismissed his concerns with a roll of his eyes.

' _I would've thought you'd have more faith in me by now. Of all the things that could stump me in my career, this little, rinky-dink toasting knife will not be it.'_

It had taken a lot of effort to bite his tongue. The, _I find your lack of faith disturbing_ , remained unsaid, and Peter repressed his disappointment that such an opportunity had been wasted.

In Peter's opinion, the knife checked the boxes for stupid and unnecessary, but was a far cry from the _undeniably awesome_ project that Mr. Stark had wanted to build. Given time, Peter probably could've thought of something better, but there had been a sense of urgency to Mr. Stark's bearing. The way he spoke, with his quips coming out faster than usual. His movements seemed hurried, like he was holding himself back from rushing Peter out the door.

In short order, they had returned back to the apartment and set up camp in the lab. Led Zeppelin blared in the back ground (or was it ACDC? Rush? Greta Van Fleet? That last band was recent, but they all sounded the same to him. Not that he would ever dare to say that aloud. He suspected that Mr. Stark's shame for him would become debilitating if that ever came to light).

With music pounding and a whirl wind of activity surrounding him, Peter realized that he didn't have the endurance for this. With such relentless eagerness crashing on him, he felt like a buoy floating in riptide. The temptation to leave nudged at the back of his mind, but he owed it to Mr. Stark to at least try. For hours, they'd poured over calculations. When finished, that had morphed into drawing up schematics.

Without warning a switch flipped, and Peter's focus drained. His eyes grew vacant as he stared at the circuit map that he'd just finished. With piercing clarity, he remembered that none of this really mattered. It was inconsequential. Today would be the same as tomorrow, and none of the things that he did would bring him closer getting May back. If such a thing were possible. It was all just time filler, and there was no way to enjoy it with this burden hanging over his head.

"Getting tired already, kid?" Peter looked up. Mr. Stark's keen eyes were regarding him closely through the holographic projection of rough blue prints. "Don't know why I'm surprised. You had an early start this morning. 6:30 wasn't kind to you, huh?"

An impenetrable stillness had settled over Peter. Fighting through it, he shrugged weakly.

"I can keep working," he offered, though fatigue showcased his reluctance. Mr. Stark seemed to deflate incrementally, before he straightened up and clasped his hands in front of him loudly.

"Nah. We'll pack it in for today and pick this up tomorrow. No sense working tired. That's dangerous."

A flurry of thoughts came to Peter's mind. The first being that it was rich to hear Mr. Stark say that working while tired was dangerous. That put a toe over the line bordering hypocrisy. Following that, he thought that since they were still in the planning stages, nothing was remotely dangerous about it.

He said none of these things. Exhaustion tamped down his voice mercilessly. Instead he murmured ' _Night, Mr. Stark'_ , as he left the lab.

Lying in his bed with the sun shining brightly through his window, he realized belatedly how stupid that was to say when it was still afternoon.

* * *

A few days passed.

Peter threw himself completely into patrolling. It took all of his concentration. All of his drive. He'd wake up, suit up, leave, and return at the end of the day sapped of every ounce of energy. Expelling that much effort day after day left room for nothing else.

A few dinners were skipped, but no one said anything. Then Saturday night came and Peter crawled through his window at 11:55, dutifully obeying the rules but missing the time he and his family usually spent together. For that, he received a few side-eyed looks from his guardians. A few gently concerned questions, which always left Peter feeling… off. Still, he didn't feel too badly about it all because so many others were barely treading water.

Robberies.

Muggings.

They came at him non-stop these days. Before, patrolling had some down time. There were breaks to walk on tight ropes. To save cats from trees. To catch his breath.

Nowadays, there didn't seem to be any room for breathing, and Peter wasn't too eager to find room for it either. That took time away from the work, from the _people_ that he was meant to be protecting, and that was the only thing that mattered.

There was plenty to do, and Peter was determined to make his help an inexhaustible resource… but at times, what was required of him was overwhelming.

"Things'll get better. You'll see. You just gotta hang on," he said gently but firmly enough, he hoped, to hide how his stomach was turning. He waited for the ambulance to arrive while the man he had encased safely in webbing stood eerily still. Peter was fairly certain that his webs, plastering him against the fence lining the Brooklyn Bridge, were the only thing keeping him upright.

Peter could leave - his work here was done – but all he could think of were those two robbers from his first night out. The ones who had waited out his webs when no one had shown up.

The stakes were higher here. If no one came and his webbing dissolved and this guy made another attempt to jump off the bridge, Peter wasn't sure how he'd be able to live with that. So, he stayed. He'd reapply webbing all day if he had to.

The man stayed silent, and Peter felt a little guilty for the relief he felt. The others that he'd stopped would sometimes yell at him until the ambulance arrived. He could've done without that. He tried to not take their words too personally. He was in no way qualified to deal with them anyway. Talking to them would probably only make things worse. So he said his _'things'll get better'_ platitude, and despite all that had happened he still whole-heartedly believed it.

This wasn't sustainable.

Peter took a moment to survey Brooklyn from the west facing side of the bridge. From the buildings that were partially destroyed by low flying aircraft to the few cars that remained abandoned in the streets. This couldn't be all there was from now on.

Flashing red and blue lights were nearing the bridge and Peter sighed in relief. Climbing a suspension cable to the top of the supporting pillar, he waited for them to pull up in front of the webbed man. One of the paramedics glanced up in time to see him leap from the top.

It was early still. His eyes flickered to the clock in his periphery: 5:30. But suddenly, he was the buoy in riptide again. One thing would come, and then another, and despite his best efforts he was one person shouting at a storm.

His webs carried him home.

* * *

Tony stirred some cream into one of the two cups of coffee in front of him. Black and caffeinated for him, creamy decaf for Pepper. Running Stark Industries was a real headache these days. With the mass hiring and training and trying to keep the deteriorated infrastructure running with so many missing pieces, it was a wonder that Pep hadn't thrown in the towel yet. And then there were pregnancy hormones adding another layer of headache to her day. Since May, her post-work wind down wine had been replaced with decaf coffee, and Tony felt that it was a sorry replacement. Even so, the sad little cup of mediocre coffee gave his wife some joy in her day, so he made sure a cup was ready for her when she got home. Not that she always wanted it, but it was the thought that counted. He looked up to the microwave clock as he heard Pepper's house key turning in the lock.

5:30.

Of all the things that Tony had thought that he would one day become, a house husband wasn't one of them. Still, he had found it to be an unexpectedly sweet gig. Maybe it was the decades of near-manic workaholic lifestyle finally catching up with him. Maybe it was because the universe had slapped him in the face so hard that his dad's old saying: ' _No amount of money ever bought a second of time.',_ finally got knocked into him.

He was done with that now; wasting time. He had wasted so much of his time with Peter, and even more so with Pepper. Years sprinkled with missed chances to know his family better. There were too many moments to count. Moments where he should have asked questions and actively taken an interest in their lives. But he rarely did, and never deeply enough. He had realized that the other day when Pepper had been casually scrolling through birthday cake recipes, trying to find a clear winner that the kid would like.

' _Does Peter like chocolate cake?'_ she'd asked. Tony had almost answered ' _yes'_ on reflex when he had the startling realization that he didn't actually know if that was true. The kid ate anything that was put in front of him without complaint, but that wasn't the same as liking something.

Being a stay at home dad was second on the list of things he'd never though he would be, and truth be told, he wasn't sure if he qualified as one just yet. One kid was still in the oven and thus unknown to him, and the other, though he was hesitant to admit it, he might only know superficially. On top of that, Peter was around so little these days that Tony doubted that he saw him as a parental figure.

Tony sure didn't feel like one.

He felt with every day more distance pushing him and the kid apart. No matter how he tried to bridge it, it didn't seem to make a difference and he worried that he never would be more than just a mentor to the kid. It was a hard pill to swallow, but the facts were what they were: Peter was almost seventeen. In the tail end of his teen years and nearing adulthood, Tony might be jumping in too late in the game for him to really matter to the kid in that way.

Peter was avoiding him. That was obvious. Tony tried to not take it too personally, but the blatant rejection stung. He told himself that the kid was working through his grief in his own way and it was _fine_. Tony was adamant about letting him do whatever he needed to do to get through this (much to Pepper's disapproval). Plus, he was fairly certain that indifference was encoded into adolescent DNA. He remembered how he'd been at that age, and based solely on that example (because he had no others), his logic checked out.

_Give it time_ , he repeated to himself time and again whenever he thought of what a shit job he was doing as a kinda sorta dad to the kid. He ignored the twinge that had recently sprung up in him. The one that feared that Peter had no real need for him other than for practical reasons. He needed a home and food and all those necessities, but maybe not a dad. If an arm's length mentorship was all they had then that was fine. Or it would be once Tony had time to adjust to the loss. And it _was_ a loss, because Tony knew that Peter had liked him before… and then for some reason he didn't.

Lifting the two cups, he turned to see Pepper standing between the kitchen and living room. A tired air exuded from her. She had already kicked off her shoes and greeted him with a smile and a kiss when he pressed her cup into her hands.

"Thanks," she muttered and lead him over to the kitchen island. Resting her brief case on the marble counter, she sat down wearily on one of the bar stools. Tony took the one beside her. "So, good news," she patted her brief case, "the owner accepted our offer."

"Which one?"

"The lake side property. The garage is still holding out for a higher offer." She rolled her eyes, though Tony knew she was used to this by now. People expecting ridiculous amounts of money just because his name was attached to the transaction. Whatever. Time was of the essence here. He only had a few more days, and he'd throw obscene amounts of money at the guy if it sped this along.

Of all his irons in the fire, that hadn't been the one worrying him. What worried him was how to bring up the subject of moving out of the city to his extremely temperamental kid without it going sideways. He leaned his elbow on the counter and lifted his mug in a sort of _cheers_ gesture.

"Now we just gotta find a palatable way to tell the kid what's up and things will be hunky-dory."

Pepper's red lips pressed into a line. That line never meant good things for Tony.

"About that-"

"I'll level with you Potts, I got nothing," he said quickly before she could say whatever it was that Tony wouldn't like. There was no stopping it, but the argument _sometimes_ leaned in his favor when he managed to get his side out first. "I'm kinda relying on you to be the angry kid whisperer here. You seem to have a real knack for getting him to understand exactly what you mean. I get things twisted up in translation."

Her brows shot up, though he couldn't imagine why she'd be surprised to hear him say that.

"Oh, no! You're not going to foist this one off on me."

"But you're so much better at making him _talk_ ," Tony urged and took a fortifying sip of his dark roast. "You know, like, real words with genuine thoughts attached to them. Not just the angsty grumbles that I get."

"Good communication isn't witchcraft, Tony." Pepper sighed around the lip of her mug. Tony scoffed but held back his snappy comeback, since his wife already looked so much more tired than she had a second ago. "And anyway, you'll need to learn sometime. Someday, Morgan will be an angsty teenager too."

He frowned but steadfastly ignored that comment. Angsty Morgan was Future-Tony's problem. Right now, Current-Tony was dealing with an angsty Peter and it was no cake walk.

He sighed.

"I wanna know what he would _really_ think about it but he just seems so disinterested in everything."

Pepper's expression softened with pity. She was the only person in the world that he could tolerate that look from, but that didn't mean that he liked it.

"Tony-"

"I know what you're gonna say," he interrupted, not in the mood to hear the _he needs time_ spiel. "Apathy is indicative of depression and of course the kid's depressed. I'm not helping things by trying to force his recovery and he needs time to feel how he feels."

Pepper's face slid into neutral, as it did whenever she was unimpressed by him.

"Well, what do you need me around for when you already know what I'm going to say before I say it?"

Tony's chest tightened.

"Don't even joke, Pep. I always need you around," he said, perhaps too sharply. Pepper smiled sadly at him. Setting down her coffee mug, she reached across the counter and took his hand in hers. Her wedding ring pressed against his palm.

"Yeah, you're stuck with me now," she said with that unique brand of fond exasperation that was reserved solely for him. His chest still felt a fraction too tight, so he pressed a kiss to the back of her hand to rectify it. That did the trick. Her sappy smile dissolved into a smirk, and she added: "While we're spending the rest of our lives together, you might want to take some time to tweak your spousal telepathy, because you were completely off. I wasn't going to say any of that."

Dropping their linked hands onto the counter, he shot her a coy smile.

"Yeah? Well don't keep me in suspense, spit it out."

She rolled her eyes upwards for moment, as though to say to an invisible spectator ' _You see what I have to deal with?'_ , while conveniently ignoring the fact that she had signed up for this circus.

"I was going to say that bringing up the land purchase right now might be too much too soon."

Tony frowned. Releasing Pepper's hand, he rubbed the back of his neck while his mind spun out a dozen possible scenarios.

"You think so? I don't know…" He stared into his cup intently as though he could pull some top notch parenting tips out of its depths. "We wouldn't be moving there for at least a year. Not until Peter graduates from high school."

"Yes, but we just moved into _this_ apartment last month," she countered. Tony could already hear her patience beginning to thin. There must've been an extra helping of bullshit dished out at the office today.

"Right, but he knows that time is consistent, flows in a linear fashion, and next summer's a long time from now. I haven't even drawn up the blueprints for the house. Hell, there's still trees on the site that need to be cut down."

His mind wandered back to the lake side property that he and Pepper had visited a few weeks ago. It was beautiful but completely unlike anything that Tony was used to. The rustic environment was more like what Pepper had grown up in while living in rural Colorado. That was all Tony needed to know to sell him on the idea. The learning curve would be steep for him, no question about it. But he knew that his own upbringing in an empty New York City mansion with an absentee family had yielded an arrogant jerk with a drinking problem. He wanted better things for his sons. Both of them. Even if Peter wanted to bail out the second he turned eighteen, Tony would make sure he would be leaving better than when he came in.

"Unless you want a house built _around_ a tree," he teased to distract himself from the sad direction his thoughts were going. "That'd be kinda cool, but it would threaten the integrity of the structure after a few years-"

"Tony."

"A tree house like that would be the stuff of fairy tales. Or Tolkien. Gotta say, Pep, I'm not sure that I'm willing to go full social reclus, oddball hermit living in the woods. Not yet, anyway. Time enough for that when I'm senile."

"Tony-"

"Tree houses are for kids anyway. I'll build one for Morgan when he's old enough."

For a moment, he could _see_ it so perfectly. A tree house with laughter ringing from within it. Web hammocks strung between tree trunks. His boys playing. Peter would be an adult by then, but Tony knew that he would be down to rough house with Morgan. He could admit that he didn't know everything that there was to know about Peter, he _did_ know that he was the kind of person who would never be too old for fun.

"Just trust me on this one," Pepper interjected, popping his little daydream. "Dropping this news on him when he's still trying to figure out how to live with us is going to be too much. We'll tell him later when he's gotten more comfortable around us."

The smile, remnant of his vision, slid from Tony's face.

For two months they'd lived together, and Peter still wasn't comfortable with him.

For two months, Tony had made the kid his top priority. He'd thrown in everything he could, and then some more, into his care and wellbeing but it still wasn't enough. There were moments that equally terrified and frustrated him, when he was sure that Peter wasn't really there. The lively nature that Tony was used to would evaporate and an un-Peterlike stillness would overcome him. Tony couldn't even say in those moments that the kid was ignoring him because that would imply some sort of conscious intention to do so. No, it was more like Tony ceased to exist to him and that unnerved him more than anything else.

Tony was the fix it guy. He had been for most of his life. With pliable metal, he could heat and shape and _force_ it into working again, but children were… trickier. There was so little he could do to fix Peter, and the things that he could do he had to think and rethink to near neurotic levels. The stakes for his decisions were dauntingly high. A machine could be scrapped if he messed up too badly, but the mistakes he made with Peter could affect him for the rest of his life. It wasn't that Tony was new to the whole _responsibility_ gig, but the weight of his future screw-ups in this matter kept him awake at night. And he was screwing-up. It happened in unforeseen ways. No matter how Tony tried to prevent them, invisible instances slipped through the cracks and only became noticeable to him after the damage was done.

Maybe the issue was with him. It could be that he wasn't a good fit for whatever it was Peter needed. The thought left him feeling a little breathless. He downed the rest of his coffee just to occupy his mind for a moment. Pepper sat quietly, her calm eyes taking in his anxious fidgeting.

"Be honest, Pep. Do you think it's me? Am I too much?" His voice came out hard to cover up the helplessness he felt welling up. But of course, Pepper's watchful eyes saw right through it. Pity saturated her expression, but she said nothing. Her gaze flickered and Tony could see her mulling over her own response. Carefully crafting her words so that she could undoubtedly say, in the nicest way possible, ' _Yes, Tony. You're the problem'._ He couldn't stand to hear it. In the decades that he'd known Pepper, her unbiased and objective view had never been wrong. Hearing her agree with what he feared would make it far too real. So instead he said before she could speak: "I just don't get it! He seemed like he was doing better, but now he's more withdrawn than ever and I don't know what went wrong!"

They had sat right there at that same kitchen island only a few weeks ago. He and the kid had done the _good communication_ thing that Pepper, and a litany of grief counseling books that Tony had read, were so keen on. Tony had _thought_ that it had gone well. Peter had _seemed_ happy by the end of it. Was he not? Should he have stayed instead of going to bed? Was Tony really that shitty at reading people?

"I've noticed that too. He's clearly not coping as well as we'd hoped," Pepper murmured thoughtfully, and Tony felt immense relief that he wasn't the only one confused. "I _still_ think that we should get him into therapy-"

"And I already told you that he won't do it," Tony sighed, not wanting to go through the whole rigmarole again. "I'm not going to force him into something that he doesn't want to do. That's especially ineffective in therapy. What's that saying about horses and water?"

Pepper closed her eyes tiredly, as though looking at him was too much effort. When she opened her eyes again there was a steady focus in them.

"Well, getting back to your first question: I don't think this is about you."

Tony let out an unintentional sigh of relief. Of all the times that Pepper had said that to him, that was perhaps the most welcomed. If the shrewd look in her eyes was anything to go by, she knew it too. But Tony was never one for sappy confessions so instead he shrugged indifferently.

"If I had a dime for every time I heard that one…" Tony drawled sarcastically. "I'd be a slightly richer man than I am now. Like, maybe slap an extra couple hundred bucks on to my net worth."

"You asked for honesty," she reminded him bluntly, not falling for his act. "And I meant what I said. You're trying to fix this in the way that _you_ would want it fixed and not in the way that Peter would. You're wired differently. You fix things by doing, and you do things a mile a minute when you're stressed. Right now, I think Peter needs you to fix things by just _being_."

She took a sip of her coffee, watching Tony carefully over the rim. His joints suddenly felt very stiff.

God.

How could something as basic as the order to _do nothing_ be so intimidating? What was wrong with him? That should be the easiest thing in the world. What the hell was he even doing? He had no business trying to parent a grief-stricken teenager. If something as simple as _'let him come to you'_ had him panicked like there was a gun to his head, he was really up a creek.

But this was about Peter – one of his boys – and for his sake he had to at least try. Comfort zones be damned. He took a deep, cleansing breath that did little to help him.

"So, I should slow my roll?"

"Yes." Pepper nodded emphatically, clearly delighted that he'd finally caught on. Tony tapped his fingertips on the marble.

"I'm not great at that."

"I know."

"And I wanna do right by him."

"I know that too."

Stilling his hand, he allowed his masking sarcasm to fall. The look he shot his wife must've appeared as lost as he felt because she took his hand again.

"Keeping secrets kinda feels like the opposite, y'know?"

To his surprise, Pepper hummed in agreement and squeezed his hand. She looked unsure, and the uncertainty on her face was disturbing. Out of the two of them, Tony was the hot mess and Pepper was his rock. She was the one with good and moral judgment. If she was second guessing herself, maybe they were _both_ up a creek. After a second of silent deliberation, her expression became confident again.

"It's just for a couple months until things get… easier."

Tony sighed and eyed his empty mug. He had the vague wish for it to be filled with something stronger, but a second later his shame banished the thought. Squeezing his eyes shut, he pinched the bridge of his nose.

"God, Pep. Nothing about this is easy. Not a damn thing."

Tony expected her to say something encouraging or comforting. It was just her way. Whenever he was overwhelmed, she was right there telling him to buck up, in some varying degree of politeness dependent upon the situation. But he was met with silence. It stretched on and when he opened his eyes he was instead met with Pepper's distracted and troubled gaze.

"I know," she muttered, and the quiet admission made dread creep over him. It occurred to him in that moment that Pepper, who was almost always two steps ahead of him, was on equal footing with him in this matter. With the ground crumbling around him, he wished that one of them could stand somewhere solid.

* * *

The next half hour that followed, Tony received the daily debriefing of what was going on at Stark Industries. It had been the same every work day since he made Pepper the head of the company.

' _You still need to know what's happening, Tony. Even if you're not the CEO anymore.'_

' _Can't say I agree with you there, Miss Potts. See, that's why I gave you the keys to the castle. So you can do what you do best; running it in tiptop shape. Meanwhile I can do what I do best-'_

' _Drink and antagonize people?'_

' _Okay, so you're still upset about the whole birthday fiasco. I get it. I might've been an ass.'_

' _Might've?'_

' _Mistakes were made and I said I was sorry-'_

' _No, actually. You didn't.'_

' _Didn't I? Well, I'm saying it now.'_

' _We'll have brief daily meetings-'_

' _Pep…'_

' _Where I'll fill you in on the big stuff-'_

' _You're killin' me.'_

' _And I still expect you to attend at least two board meeting per month.'_

' _This isn't how I imagined your boss lady glow up going. How about twice per month office sex? I feel that would be a more effective morale booster than stuffy board meetings.'_

' _Whose morale?'_

' _Mine… and yours too. Not to toot my own horn, but I'm pretty great in-'_

' _Sorry, my terms are non-negotiable. Just the draw backs of dating the CEO of your company. Deal with it.'_

She had been right of course. She always was. Even so, Tony couldn't help but lament all the collective wasted time he had to listen to rising and falling stock percentages, mergers, and transactions. But it was necessary that he keep an ear to the ground. Responsibility and whatnot. It was an acquired tasted that he'd refined over the years. With the daily business put to rest, he and Pepper had settled themselves more comfortably on the couch, getting in all the quality time they could before the kid came home.

It wasn't long after that Tony's phone _pinged_ with a notification from Karen, and his stomach dropped.

_Peter has taken off his suit. Last recorded vitals indicate emotional distress (heart rate 120bpm). Last known location: the top of the Chrysler Building (405 Lexington Ave.)_

He barely caught sight of Pepper's bewildered face as he sprinted for the door.

"Where are you going?" She called after him. He wrenched it open without turning to look back at her.

"It's Peter! I gotta go!"

It was all a blur. Running into his lab. Slapping an arc reactor to his chest. Feeling the nanotech suit build around him as he took to the sky. He weaved through buildings, thrusters burning at full power, with his heart pounding so loudly in his ears that he could barely hear the wind whistling.

The Chrysler Building, one of Manhattan's tallest structures instantly came into view when he leaped to the open air. Agonizingly slow minutes ticked by as he gradually grew close enough for his AI to make herself useful.

"FRIDAY! Gimme a magnified visual of the Chrysler Building's roof! Do you see Peter on it?"

Promptly, FRIDAY cropped and zoom in on the iconic conical roof. The spire tapered in layers to the needle and Tony's eyes searched frantically over the glittering sunlit metal.

There was no one.

He couldn't breathe.

But then, a small, subtle movement near the top caught his eye. If he'd blinked, he would've missed it.

"There appears to be someone sitting just below the needle," said FRIDAY. Tony's breath came out in a rush. His smooth flight path stuttered under the force of his sheer relief before he regained control again. "From this angle, I'm unable to discern their identity."

It was Peter. It had to be. If there was any fairness left in the world, he'd stay where he was until Tony could get him within the safety of his reach. And of course he would stay, because Peter would never… he couldn't… Tony would've noticed if things had gotten _that_ bad for him.

In seconds, he was upon the building. The back of a figure came into view, obscured by the thick pole he rested against. Tilting his body, Tony fish-hooked around the peak clumsily and came to a jerking halt in front of Peter.

For a split second, they just starred at each other. Peter sat stripped down to his underwear with his spider suit folded and held on his lap with one arm. His web shooters encircled his wrists and a thin, shimmering line shot out of each one, connecting him to the roof on either side. He had given himself a fair bit of slack so he could move his arms freely. Spread out from where he sat, a thick layer of opaque webbing crept across the metal. Tony recognized it as one of the 576 web combinations that he'd installed: the webbing coated in aerogel. He'd designed it to protect him against heat. The kid had laughed at him before and said that he'd _over done it_. Who's laughing now?

He didn't look at all surprised to see Tony. The angry pinched expression that Peter wore was different from the one that Tony had become used to. Any time that Tony had seen the kid angry before, it was muddled with a measure of guilt or shame. The roiling fury that he saw flittering across his features made all the other instances pale in comparison. It crackled like static but was dampened by a profoundly wounded air. The hurt, deeply etched into the few lines of his young face, made Tony flinch in his armored encasement. He had the sudden intense desire to hunt down whoever had caused this, but he shook it off. First things first:

"Kid, what're you doing up here? Why're you out of your suit?" He spoke as calmly and gently as his still racing heart would allow him. It didn't seem to matter. Peter's bearing turned predictably cagey and defensive, and Tony was just so _tired_ of this.

"I'm not hurt."

Tony let out a frustrated sigh. That was a step up from insisting that he was fine when he wasn't but only marginally so. He had to hand it to the kid, he picked up on his pet peeves quick.

"Karen said your heart rate was spiking…" he trailed off. He waited for Peter to take his prompt and explain the rest, but his expression became increasingly guarded. His mouth pulled into a defiantly silent frown. Tony pressed his eyes shut for a moment and drew a long breath. "That doesn't answer my question."

The hard look that Peter hit him with was miles apart from the boy he knew.

"Karen was bugging me."

The venom he shot was paralyzing, and Tony knew who it was directed at. If he were standing instead of hovering in the air, he might've staggered back a step. He wasn't an idiot. He knew that Karen was a middle… AI. She was the liaison. The buffer between himself and the kid while he was on patrol. He could read between the lines.

Peter had been avoiding him, but this was taking it to a whole new level. Certain protocols in his suit would ignore his request to be left alone if he was in some sort of danger. If he truly needed help, Karen would alert Tony without hesitation. Peter knew this. Climbing out of his suit, and endangering himself in the process, in a last-ditch attempt to reject Tony's help was…

Heat churned painfully in his stomach as he swallowed the insult. Pepper had said that this wasn't about him, but he thought - as his eyes flicked to the suit bundled in the kid's lap - that this may be one of the few instances when she was wrong.

"You know you can just mute her, right? Or take your mask off. You didn't need to strip."

The sarcastic bite in his voice rivaled the kid's, but the ensuing flinch that it caused made Tony instantly regret his tone. He was supposed to be the adult here. He had told Pepper that just days ago when he'd worried that his unchecked bitchiness had caused the kid to run off. As the adult, he was supposed to be above of anger when the kid did stupid shit. Admittedly, throwing a temper tantrum on top of a tower with only minimal safety features enabled really took the cake as far as stupid shit went. His priority right now really should be to get him down to a non-lethal height, preferably to their home. Humor usually did the trick. The kid was always more open to suggestion when Tony managed to get a few laughs from him.

"Did the siren song of a ridiculous claim to fame call to you?" His joke came out hard and metallic through his closed helmet. He would've lifted his face plate so the kid could be eased along with his teasing smirk. But while he was able to keep the anger out of his voice, he wasn't sure he could keep it off of his face. "The first person to sit on top of the Chrysler Building wearing nothing but skivvies. That's one for the Guinness Book of Records." Nothing. The Peter that he knew would've blushed and whined, but the demeanor of the Peter before him remained unchangingly stormy. And Tony, feeling well out of his depth, began to spiral. "That doesn't sound like you. To be honest, that sounds more like _me._ Well, the me of yesteryear. Past me wasn't too big on propriety. Shocker, I know. Past me also couldn't pass up a dare, and that's a bad combination-"

"I thought you weren't going to be Iron Man anymore."

Tony blinked, surprised by his accusatory tone. It rang with the sort of righteousness that accompanied calling someone out in a lie. While he had no idea what that was all about, the implication (coming from _his own_ damn kid no less) that he was a liar _did_ succeed in making his hackles rise.

"Well, I didn't suit up for a job," he snapped. "I just tend to get a bit antsy when my kid climbs up a 'certain death drop' sized building and then goes off the grid. Thought I'd check in."

The kid's face fell, washing away all traces of his temper. Along with it, Tony's heart drop.

_What went wrong?_ He wanted to ask, but didn't because he had a feeling that it wouldn't be well received. Seems like nothing he did or said was ever well received.

' _There's really no shame in it, kid.'_

' _I know.'_

' _Seriously, I've been going to therapy since my first encounter with aliens. It's really not a big deal.'_

' _I just don't want to go, Mr. Stark.'_

' _No one would think less of you if you went to a couple sessions.'_

' _How many times do I have to say 'no' before you to stop pushing me?'_

Tony had long ago accepted his own inadequacy. Too many times, he had measured up short of what others needed him to be. It was humbling to be an incompetent hero to the world, but he could live with the disappointment of strangers. It was utterly _devastating_ to be an incompetent father to his boy, and he wasn't sure if he could live with this failure. Something had to give. He felt like he was throwing water by the thimble-full on a house fire because he couldn't find buckets.

"You didn't have to come get me," Peter muttered with some bitterness. He looked around himself sadly, as though he were just realizing now what this all might look like to someone else. It made Tony want to both hug his stupidly ignorant kid and bang his own head against something hard repeatedly. Instead he felt a short and breathy, incredulous laugh being pulled from him.

"Yeah, I did, kid. Don't know if you got the memo, but I'm sorta responsible now for your wellbeing. I got the paperwork to prove it and everything."

He meant it as a joke based on truth, but the way that Peter eyed him skeptically made Tony's stomach sink. It wasn't that his mistrust was unwarranted (Tony had been waiting since the day they'd met for Peter to become disillusion with him), but he wondered what had been the tipping point. It couldn't have been this. Nothing he said was a lie. Maybe he would never find out. A cowardly part of him hoped that he never would.

But there were priorities here that he needed to consider. He reminded himself forcefully that his ki-, _Peter_ was sitting, nearly naked, on a roof that was too high off of the ground for Tony's liking. That needed to be dealt with first. He swallowed around the lump in his throat.

"I'm not too keen on testing your natural sticking abilities against the effects of gravity," he reminded Peter and was pleased at how strong his voice sounded. "Get in the suit."

Peter frowned, because _of course_ he wouldn't just do what he was told for once. He lifted one of his wrists as if to show off the web shooter resting there.

"I got my web shooters."

The kid had a lot of damn gall. Tony would give him that. He rolled his eyes (even though Peter couldn't see it) and repeated to himself, like a mantra, that he was above anger.

"Yeah, I see that," he ground out. "This still isn't a safe stunt to pull. Not unless you managed to unpack the parachute from your suit and stuff it up your-."

"Alright, alright. Chill."

The tiniest of quirks pulled at the corners of Peter's mouth. The sight of the small smile was enough to extinguish Tony's knee-jerk reaction at being told to _chill_. It was good to know that the mental image of floating down to earth like an upside-down V was enough to crack through the façade of the most determined of sour-pusses. Nothing beat a good old-fashioned ass joke. Tony allowed himself a brief moment of self-congratulation.

It was short lived as Peter moved to stand on the aerogel coated edge of the tiered roof. Tony's heart skipped as he quickly landed next to him. One hand held tight to the base of the tall needle, the other clamped on to Peter's shoulder as he wiggled his way back into his suit.

"Now, see, telling someone to 'chill' usually has the opposite effect," he informed him gruffly. Peter severed the webs binding him to the roof so he could pull his arms through the sleeves, and Tony's hand reflexively gripped tighter. Peter winced but didn't protest. "Lucky for you, I'm chill by nature. And I'm guessing that your patrol has been rough, so I'll let that one slide. But maybe you should think about dropping the attitude, kid."

"Sorry," he muttered, and for the first time in the years that he'd known him, Tony doubted his sincerity.

"Are you?"

He caught a glimpse of Peter's jaw clenching just before he pulled his mask over his face.

Well. Tony was having none of that. With the kid safely in his suit, Tony dropped his arm to his side.

"You know what? I think you're done for the day. The citizens of New York will have to get over their disappointment that you're turning in early."

Peter turned his head to look away. Tony was about to give him the old _'look at me when I'm talking to you'_ , while feeling every bit like the dinosaur that he was becoming, when he noticed that the kid wasn't looking away from him. He was looking _toward_ somewhere else.

Tony followed his line of sight. The most notable thing to draw his eye was the Empire State Building. That couldn't be what the kid was looking at. It wasn't new to him; he wasn't a tourist. He looked around at the area. Beyond it was Greenwich Village.

It all clicked.

He reached out his hand again and lightly shook Peter's stiff shoulder.

"C'mon, kid. Let's go home."

The shoulder under his hand grew stiff, but he didn't move. Tony knew what he was seeing in the distance: the donut ship that had been hovering over those streets. The destruction that had came with it. The beginning of the end. He shook his shoulder harder and finally, Peter turned away. He pulled himself quickly out of Tony's grasp, and without a word jumped from the roof.

_Thwip._

Tony heard a web shoot out and he watched him go. Swinging in rising and falling arcs, he moved in the general direction towards their home. Tony stayed rooted where he was. The hard exterior of his suit hid the turmoil within it.

It had suddenly become indisputably clear that he had over stepped. He wasn't Peter's dad, and what's more, Peter had never asked for him to even try to be that person. He had projected himself into Peter's life despite his own reassurances early on that it would be wrong to try to pass himself off as the kid's parent. He seemed to have forgotten that somewhere in their time of living together.

It was all so evident now that Peter only needed him to provide a solution to a permanent error. He saw a lasting and determined hope in his eyes whenever he asked him for the millionth time to recount the events that had happened with Strange. That same determined hope was so endearing and uniquely Peter. It was one of his best qualities, but now, Tony wished he could bring himself to give up. Recognizing the end and knowing when to quit would save him from long and drawn out suffering.

Tony couldn't give him the solution that he wanted and so, Peter was pulling away. The kid seemed to have figured it out, finally and after years of disappointment: Tony wasn't all that people had cracked him up to be. It was just horrible timing that he was figuring this out at the exact moment when Tony desperately wanted him to stay. There was a clock winding down. Tony could feel it looming over him. He was frantically running from its shadow while trying to catch and keep his kid.

His effort might all be for nothing.

Tony watched the speck of red and blue finally disappear from his sight and his throat tightened. His son was pulling away and all Tony could do was watch him leave.


	16. Spill Over

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, I still walk the earth. Thanks for bearing with me. It won't be nearly so long for the next update.

All Peter had wanted was one goddamn minute alone. Just some time to sit and process and catch _himself_ before the flickering tendrils of his panic snagged him first. Pressed against the bricks of his apartment building wall, his red and black webbed hands adhering him to the surface, he listened with rapt attention to the voices floating from his open window. He hadn't cared much that he'd been shamelessly snooping, it was just how he got his information these days. With so much uncertainty in the air, and most of it concerning him directly, Peter's found all the secrecy completely unfair. Armed with that justification, the guilt had long since vanished.

Straining his hearing, picking up and dropping the odd softly spoken word, he'd hung motionless to the wall for a few confused minutes. Then… he'd heard enough. He understood.

Quicker than his mind could keep up with, months of simmering apprehension hardened into something concrete. Sickening dread, which had never fully left him, sunk claws into him and _pulled_.

Ideally, he would've had some time to adjust to the whip-lash; his whole world shifting yet again. But apparently, Karen couldn't resist sticking her binary coded nose into his business.

' _Peter, your heart rate is escalating at an alarming rate.'_

' _Yeah, I know.'_

' _Shall I call Mr. Stark?'_

' _No, don't do that.'_

' _I believe it would be in your best interests to inform-'_

' _I don't care what you think are in my best interests, Karen! I said leave it alone!'_

He had known, deep down, from the moment Karen suggested it, she was going to make that decision for him. But that didn't stop him from fighting her.

He swung through narrow streets with no destination in mind except _getting away from here_ , and eventually his thoughts refining themselves into a general idea; Up. Something about the relative quiet of the city, only found above a certain altitude, always helped to clear his head. He wanted to be somewhere with a vantage point where he could look out and see the city sprawling in all directions.

It was then that he'd seen the Chrysler Building, and he decided it would do the job.

Total and absolute solitude.

It couldn't be found anywhere really. To be completely detached from everyone without means of being contacted was impossible at the apartment, on patrol, even just walking around the city outside of his suit (he suspected that Mr. Stark had long ago installed a tracking app in his phone). He had never before wanted so badly to not just be alone but also out of reach. To sit some unknown and forgotten, hidden away from all the meddling and _best interests_ , with no one but himself calling the shots on his own life.

The idea made him grimace, in spite of his longing.

Maybe, being physically away from Karen with his suit off-line was the closest he could get. Awkwardly shimmying out of his iconic red and blues, sitting on a protective layer of aerogel with his wrists tethering him to the roof, he had the vague notion that these measures might be a bit extreme. It was promptly drowned out by the memory of Mr. Stark's voice:

' _I haven't even drawn up the blueprints for the house. Hell, there's still trees on the site that need to be cut down.'_

Peter's stomach bottomed out, just as it had when he'd been resting against the bricks. From here he could see New York stretching out for miles and miles in a forest of skyscrapers… not trees. There were hardly any of those in sight, and the greenery that did sprout up here and there was strategically placed for urban decorative purposes. Forests which could be bought and leveled were non-existent in this concrete jungle.

They were leaving.

Mr. Stark, Ms. Potts, and Morgan.

Peter had been right all along. Ever since those first few weeks, when he'd been unable to sleep while he worried incessantly about his future, this was the driving force behind his insomnia; Abandonment by choice. He had seen it coming, and yet stupidly, still managed to fall for the trap. Unlike he had expected, it would occur at a time when Mr. Stark was no longer legally obligated to be in his life.

Somehow, that compromise made him feel both better and worse.

He closed his eyes and pressed the heels of his palms into his eyelids just hard enough to see little starbursts in the blackness. He remembered fleetingly and in quick succession: the feeling of Ms. Potts' cheek pressed against his temple as she'd hugged him and told him that he was a _good kid_. Mr. Stark's arm over his shoulders, making him feel small but safe in his med bay hospital bed. The taste of his favorite Thai food, which came before news of Morgan's existence…

He opened his eyes again and squinted through stinging wetness at the painfully bright sunlight. A few tears spilled over and he angrily brushed them away before they could escape the valley below his eye.

Why had Mr. Stark tried so hard to make him fit in his life? If his time with them was temporary, as he'd always suspected it would be, what was the point of making space for him? If he had known that all of this time together was for nothing, he would've preferred they'd kept a cool distance. It was painless to let go of people he hardly knew. But now they'd had Saturday night movies, banana bread, fireworks, massive strawberries, and DQ blizzards, and it would _hurt_ … goddamn it… it would hurt so much to let it all go.

That time had meant the world to him, even if he couldn't always say how meaningful those quiet moments were. Every single day since Thanos tore the universe apart was different. Some days were better for Peter, some worse. But he had found that though he never knew what to expect in himself, moment to moment, living with Ms. Potts' fond annoyance and Mr. Stark's fast-paced wit helped. It had taken him a while to put his finger on why, but eventually he'd realized how comforting their consistency was. Even as everything else collapsed, Mr. Stark and Ms. Potts remained the same odd couple that they always had been.

Moreover, Peter _liked_ them more and more as the months had passed. The banter that had initially made him feel uneasy now made him smile. He recognized the friendly and kind sentiment hidden behind the snarky jokes and back-handed compliments. He had come to know the variations of their different selves, from 'boss Ms. Potts' to 'mom Ms. Potts', and 'mentor Mr. Stark' to 'lame-dad-joke Mr. Stark', and he liked all of them.

But he would've traded it for solitude if it meant that he wouldn't have to miss it when they were gone. All at once, he wished he could do these past few months over. He would've done it all differently if he had known what was coming. He should've insisted harder in the compound med bay that he didn't need Mr. Stark. He should've gone with his initial instinct to legally emancipate himself, quit school, and get a job. He would've struggled but it all would've been worth it because he wouldn't have to miss _this_ ; the last of something irreplaceable. Something that he'd thought had vanished in its entirety with May.

It _had_ vanished with May, Peter realized with a sinking feeling. All of those times when he'd felt well and truly at home with the Starks, it _really_ had been all in his mind. The familial feeling he'd sometimes get when Mr. Stark would hesitantly ruffle his hair or clap him on his shoulder had been imagined after all. He had spent so long trying to pick apart the two; real or imagined. Trying to determine what was really happening in the bizarre circumstances that he'd found himself in. It was just his stupid Parker luck that he'd picked wrong.

But maybe… that wrong choice wasn't entirely on him. Because Mr. Stark was one of the smartest people that Peter knew, and he always seemed to _know_ what he was doing. And he _knew_ that Peter had already had to leave two families. He should've known what leaving a third would do to him, and yet he chose to do it anyway. Just as he'd chosen to make him feel wanted despite knowing his welcome had a shelf life.

' _Was it all an act?'_ Peter wondered bitterly. No sooner had the irrational thought crossed his mind that he pushed it aside. There was no way that was true. In his life, Peter had been the butt of the joke a truly unfair number of times. Whether he was being screwed over by uncontrollable forces or by people, he'd felt the sting of humiliation more times than he'd cared to admit. There was _no way_ that Mr. Stark would ever hurt him intentionally.

Peter _knew_ that, but that didn't stop an aggressive heat from rising within him. Blood rushed in his ears. A headache budded behind his eyes. A stifling pressure weighed on him as if gravity had increased, and burrowing deep into his consciousness, the unanswerable question: _How could Mr. Stark do this?_

And that was the state in which Mr. Stark had found him. Or rather, Iron Man did.

Because, of course Karen wouldn't listen to him. Why would she? It's not like Peter was his own person and capable of making his own decisions. And, _of course_ , her totally unnecessary SOS call brought the one person that Peter couldn't stand to see.

The same person's whose soft probing questions, delivered metallically from behind plated metal, were making Peter silently seethe. They were _insufferably_ gentle and kind. In the months passed, Peter had been fine with pretending. With obeying his self-imposed command to _play along_ , because he'd hated the idea of disappointing Mr. Stark with his inability to cope. Especially when he had seemed to be so concerned with Peter's happiness.

That was over now. He wanted no part in this charade.

Persistently, but with waning patience, Mr. Stark tried again and again to fish the truth out of him. Peter begrudgingly told him half of it and easily buried the lingering guilt that always accompanied his lying. It wasn't like he owed Mr. Stark any answers. If anything, Peter felt that the opposite was true.

It went on like that for a while. Questions rallied by clipped, curt responses. Peter watched with an unsettling sense of satisfaction as Mr. Stark's frustration grew with each failed attempt. Finally, when it appeared that he had exhausted Mr. Stark's patience, he started to throw desperate jokes at him. They held none of the charm that they had before.

Then, in a moment of antagonized bluntness, Mr. Stark might've let it slip that he was worried that Peter might chuck himself off of the _certain death drop sized building_. Or maybe he thought Peter might fall by accident? His meaning wasn't entirely clear, but of all the things that he could've said, that was perhaps the only thing that would've broken through his anger as it did.

Peter thought of the man he had saved just an hour or so before, plastered safely to the Brooklyn Bridge. He wouldn't say that the others that he'd saved from a similar death were _countless_ , because he remembered them all and could never forget the rising number.

He'd never meant to frighten Mr. Stark like that. Sure, he was pissed at him, but he wasn't heartless. No one should have to worry for someone's life like that. It was cruel. Shame bubbled up in him and stained his cheeks red. For a moment (but _only_ a moment) he regretted coming up here. He hadn't really been thinking of how this might look to Mr. Stark when he'd done it. But then he remembered that Mr. Stark wasn't supposed to be here. Peter hadn't wanted him here and he'd tried everything to get him to stay away.

"You didn't have to come get me," Peter muttered, his sharp bitterness emboldened by his embarrassment. To his annoyance, Mr. Stark _laughed_ , as if any part of this was funny.

"Yeah, I did, kid. Don't know if you got the memo, but I'm sorta responsible now for your wellbeing. I got the paperwork to prove it and everything."

A brick slid into Peter's stomach. He said nothing, but kept his gaze fixed on his own reflection in the gleaming gold face plate. On either side of his tiny figure, rectangular eyes bore their blue-white light into him.

' _Why did you do this? What was the point?'_ he wanted to ask, but didn't because those glowing eyes intimidated him. A frown pulled at his face as he instead wondered: _'Why did I let this happen?'_

Mr. Stark was trying again to coax him off the roof, and Peter, determined to prolong his time alone, defiantly held up one of his anchored wrists. But then, Mr. Stark just _had_ to go and make a joke about parachutes stuffed up butts, and for some stupid reason it made Peter smile. He didn't want to smile. He didn't want to laugh. It equally amazed and aggravated him that Mr. Stark had the power to make him do that, even when he was furious with him.

It was clear that he wasn't going to get what he wanted. Resigning himself to defeat, Peter stood and carefully squirmed back into his suit. A steadying metal hand held his shoulder with an unnecessarily tight grip. He barely heard the passive-aggressive telling-off that Mr. Stark directed at him. His grumbling fizzled into static in Peter's burned-out mind.

"Sorry," he muttered when he realized that it was his turn to speak. It came out stale, like predictable lines in a tired, rehearsed sketch.

"Are you?" Mr. Stark asked skeptically.

' _No,'_ he thought and just barely managed to hold himself back from saying it aloud. Instead he pulled his mask down to hide his scowl.

Mr. Stark hadn't _actually_ done anything wrong. It was good of him to give Peter somewhere to stay for the last year before he was legally an adult. It wasn't his fault that Peter had gotten too attached. He was reminded all at once of the awkward hug he had once given his newly self-appointed mentor. In hindsight, it was obvious that he was just opening the car door. But Peter could never seem to see clearly in the moment… only in humiliated retrospect.

He tried to hold on to that and let rationality ground him. But even as those thoughts looped through his mind, his throat squeezed painfully. Speaking suddenly became a secondary concern to breathing.

"You know what? I think you're done for the day," Mr. Stark said while letting go of his hold on Peter's shoulder. "The citizens of New York will have to get over their disappointment that you're turning in early."

The finality in Mr. Stark's tone rang with an unmistakably _parental_ authority. It made Peter's stomach twist, and the flimsy composure that he'd been clinging to finally crumpled. Reflexively, he turned his face away, even though his mask hid his expression.

Broken buildings stretched out in front of him in the same orderly chaos that he'd become used to. Their varying heights enticed Peter to jump, to swing, to leave Mr. Stark behind. For a half second, he really considered it. Mr. Stark had his suit, but maybe Peter could out-run him. There was a chance that he would let Peter go and then he could disappear into Greenwich Village.

It was the place where all of this started. The deceptively unassuming city that was actually home to New York's magic. Peter knew that somewhere, concealed within its streets, a secret sanctum stood waiting.

Peter's breathing hitched. His lenses snapped wide in exaggerated mimicry of his eyes. A surge of pure, desperate energy coursed through him, and for a moment he was stunned into stillness. He opened his mouth to speak, his mind struggling through his excitement to find the right words. But a strong, armored hand grasped his shoulder before he could make a sound. Again, Mr. Stark shook him, and Peter felt as though he was trying to physically reign him in.

"C'mon, kid. Let's go home."

Despite Mr. Stark's gentleness (or maybe because of it) Peter tensed under his touch. He remembered every instance when he had brought up the infinity stones, undoing their damage, or somehow being able to fix this and bring everyone back. Mr. Stark had always been so quick to shut him down, and _always_ with that same tired and weary air.

Why did Peter think that this time would be any different?

His mouth clamped shut. Mr. Stark shook his stiff shoulder again, and Peter shrugged out from under his hand. He jumped before Mr. Stark could say anything and felt the thrill of the freefall.

_Thwip._

He turned east despite every instinct screaming at him to go west. With so much work laid out in front of him, the task suddenly became daunting.

He needed a plan. He'd bide his time, get his questions together, _sleep_ , and figure out the best way of going about this. And then maybe…

Peter grinned as a new kind of thrill consumed him. One that had nothing to do with the height and rushing air. Nothing had changed, and yet _everything_ looked different. The same broken world that Peter had observed from the Brooklyn Bridge zipped past him, but it somehow seemed less bleak.

He knew that this world wasn't sustainable. He also knew that this forced dynamic between himself and his mentor wasn't meant to last. Mr. Stark had his own life, and Peter's presence in it was rocking the boat. It had threatened to tip since he stepped on board, and Peter knew that he had to leave before he capsized it.

' _Your place is here.'_

No. It wasn't. And it never would be. That lie must've come out of Mr. Stark's _best interests_ for him. Peter swallowed hard around the lump in his throat. It didn't matter anyway because Peter would make this right. He'd take back his place in the world by restoring it. He'd do it alone if he had to.

* * *

That remainder of the night passed in a rush of hopeful and speculative planning. Shut up in his room, alone but too busy to feel lonely, Peter spent hours mapping out possible plans and tactics. With a goal in sight, a rekindled purpose fueled him and harried energy carried him through the night.

He hadn't been absorbed like this, in work that was entirely his own, for quite some time. Not since that gray period after Ben and before Mr. Stark had he been able to work solo, without anyone else's input. Back when Peter had May, but because of the nature of his double-life, had often felt that he only really had himself.

Self-reliance really was the best way to go. It hurt less. He had come to learn that the hard way.

Peter was aware, of course, of Mr. Stark's and Ms. Potts' cautious presence prowling just outside of his closed door. He could practically feel their concern saturating the apartment. He'd entered his room via window in a graceless heap of limbs and webs. Not long after that, he heard Mr. Stark come through the front door. Ms. Potts' urgent whisper, _'What happened? What's going on?'_ was met with silence and Peter assumed they had started a text message conversation for the sake of privacy.

He didn't pay it any mind. Yesterday, he would've felt guilty for causing so much worry, but all that had changed now. Mr. Stark and Ms. Potts had their own secrets between them, and now, so did Peter.

Hours of secluded work were periodically punctuated with interruptions; Ms. Potts' nervous knocking on his door followed by a hesitant question delivered with such soft sensitivity that Peter had found himself gritting his teeth in annoyance.

_Was he okay?_

Yes.

_Did he want to talk?_

No.

_Could she come in?_

Not now, please.

_Dinner was ready. He needed to eat. Would he come out?_

That last one wasn't really a question that Peter could refuse, so he sat and ate hurriedly. Mr. Stark and Ms. Potts traded silent, worried glances over the table, which Peter pretended not to see, and asked innocuous conversation-starter questions, which he gave short answers to. Then he'd left and thrown himself back into the thick of it.

He schemed and he planned, wracking his brain over for every aspect that he needed to cover:

He thought of when he would go.

( _There are three weeks before the school year starts. If I hurry, Ned and MJ won't get held back a year_ ).

He thought of what he would need.

( _My street clothes would make me more discreet, but what if there's something dangerous out there? That's dumb, of course, there'll be booby traps! What is this, amateur hour? Get your head in the game, Parker. What kind of magic funhouse doesn't have traps? Suit up, for sure_ ).

He thought of who he would need with him.

( _Dr. Banner could be a big help. He's the leading expert on gamma radiation. Couldn't hurt to bring him in on this. Plus, he's got the Hulk to protect him if things get ugly_ ).

All of his thoughts tripped and came to a halt when Peter remembered that he didn't _actually_ know where the sanctum was.

Slumping back in his desk chair, He rubbed his fingertips over his tired eyes. He _kinda_ knew where the sanctum was, but admittedly, he only knew the general location. The fighting had started in Greenwich Village, and Mr. Stark said that he had immediately left the sanctum to get in on the action that was ripping the city apart.

Behind closed eyes, he saw the glittery gold circling sparks and he remembered the tingly sensation that came with passing through it. Leaping through great distances like it was nothing. His eyes snapped wide and he groaned.

What if the sanctum wasn't in Greenwich Village at all? What if Dr. Strange portaled himself, Mr. Stark and Dr. Banner from a different part of the city? Maybe it wasn't even in New York. What if he portaled them from a completely different city? Or state? Or _country_? Mr. Stark hadn't really specified where he had been. Maybe he didn't know. If that was true, the sanctum could be anywhere.

What if it wasn't possible to find it through non-magical means?

Peter's heart hammered against his ribs. He felt sick. But then he reminded himself that Mr. Stark had been there before as Iron Man, and his heart began to slow. Even if Mr. Stark hadn't known where he was, his suit's tracker did. It would be simple enough to access its logged locations… but that also meant that he would have to let Mr. Stark in on his plans.

With a heavy sigh, Peter leaned further into his chair. The flexible back gave slightly under his weight. Letting his head fall back, he stared blankly at the ceiling while that unpleasant inevitability settled over him. Those logs were probably being kept on Mr. Stark's private server, along with all of the processes that made up FRIDAY. For a brief, daring second, he wondered how difficult it would be to hack into it (Ned had managed with relative ease. Just a couple taps on his keyboard. It would be _so easy_ ), but then the profound _wrongness_ of what he was considering caught up with him. His heart sank.

That was a line which Peter would not cross. Though he was desperate to avoid Mr. Stark, and at this point loathed the idea of asking anything from him, that was beneath him… and possibly something that he couldn't be forgiven for when he was caught. And he would be caught, Peter had no doubt. No one broke into Mr. Stark's secure servers and got away with it. His face grew hot and he buried his head into his arms on top of his desk.

' _I wanna do right by him.'_

Peter truly believed that Mr. Stark had been telling Ms. Potts the truth. He really meant to do his best, even if his _best_ was sometimes misguided. Peter knew his heart was in the right place. If he really wanted to _do right by him_ then he would help Peter get his family back. Mr. Stark was missing his own people too, even if he had given up on getting them back.

Peter remembered how angry he had been when he had realized that everyone had given up. Captain Rogers had released an official apology on behalf of the Avengers. Everyone else had parted ways from the compound. Mr. Stark had gone into retirement without even telling Peter that he was going to hang up his mask. Peter had been so _angry_ with all of them. He'd never thought that he would've given up too. Turns out, all it took was a couple months for him to forget all about what he had lost.

_Tap, tap, tap._

"Peter?" Ms. Potts' gentle voice came through the closed door. "It's late. You need to go to bed."

"M'kay," said Peter, muffled through his arms. He wasn't even sure if he was loud enough for Ms. Potts to have heard him. Regardless, a second later her feet padded away and Peter was left to his worries.

* * *

Sleep came in frustratingly short fits and bursts. Like a cat that didn't know if it wanted to be outside or inside, Peter's mind weaved between awake and asleep. Staring into his dark bedroom, he couldn't get his mind to shut up. It chugged along and threw new questions at him, new facets to consider, and most troubling of all, how to bring up the idea of going back to the sanctum to Mr. Stark.

It was hard to tell where the divide was between worrying in his conscious thoughts and worrying in his dreams. The transition was hazy. In the former, he thought that Mr. Stark might be resistant to his idea, in the latter, he laughed disparagingly until Peter woke in a cold sweat.

In between one of those bouts of waking and sleep, muffled voices lured him into consciousness. With some difficulty, his eyes peeled open and he winced against the pale sunlight filling his room.

"… might be too extravagant. Peter doesn't strike me as the type-"

"Nah, it'll be good. Trust me, Pep. There was _wistfulness_ in his eyes. And this sort of restoration is basically just big Legos, which the kid is nuts for. This'll be a slam dunk, I just know it."

Peter turned his head to look at his bedroom door. Pushed up against the wall next to it, Ben's old suitcase sat zipped closed.

"I guess you haven't played with Legos in a long time if you're this far off the mark-"

"Literally decades at this point, but that doesn't make me wrong."

"Okay, fine. But two is kind of excessive, don't you think?"

"You're really asking what _I_ think is excessive?"

Ben's faded initials caught the weak, rising sunlight. Peter closed his eyes tiredly, as though that would shut out the noise. Blindly, he reached for his bedside table and closed his fingers around the familiar shape of his headphones.

"No, I'm not. That was rhetorical."

"Yeah… yeah, I get what you're saying, but-"

He slipped the noise cancelling headphones on, effectively cutting off Mr. Stark's early morning rambling. He wondered dully what they were talking about. Why was Mr. Stark awake so early anyway? That wasn't like him. It didn't matter, he decided. Instead, he turned over and went back to sleep.

* * *

Some hours later, Peter woke feeling lousy all over. Laying in his bed, his eyes itched from fatigue but he was too jittery to try to force himself to sleep. He still hadn't figured out how he was going to confront Mr. Stark. Restlessness fought against his bone-deep fatigue, urging him to do _something_ even as every fiber of his being ordered him to stay in bed.

There were dust moats floating through the air. Peter followed them lazily with his eyes until he turned his head and resettled his gaze on the navy-blue suitcase next to the door.

_B.F.P_

Ben's old suit case that held Peter's old things. _No_ , he thought sullenly, _that wasn't_ _right_. It held his _only_ things. Because the truth was that Peter was lying in Mr. Stark's bed. He was wearing Mr. Stark's clothes. He was living in Mr. Stark's apartment. It had been a while since he'd thought of it in such bleak terms. The sharp awareness of his circumstances rubbed him the wrong way.

Nothing in this apartment held permanence, save for what had come out of that suitcase. With that reminder at the forefront of his mind, it became clear to Peter what he needed to do.

He exchanged the clothes he was wearing for one of his old, worn, science pun t-shirts and a pair of jeans that was faded from too many trips through the wash. He emptied his dresser drawers on to the floor. Then the contents of his closet joined it. He separated the clothing into two piles: his and Mr. Stark's. Then, scooping a small mountain of clothes into his arms, he set out for the laundry room.

Mr. Stark watched him from the living room. Peter could feel his eyes following him as he wandered back and forth from his bedroom to the laundry room with heaps of clothing. Peter avoided looking in his direction, and Mr. Stark didn't come to him. It was for the best. Even with an entire night to think about it, Peter still didn't know what to say to him.

Peter mulled over his words as poured detergent into the washer.

( _So… you remember yesterday when we had that weird moments on top of the Chrysler Building? Well, I had an idea – No! That's stupid. Don't be so casual about wanting to save the world. He won't take you seriously if you're too chill about it._ )

He pulled the vacuum from the hall closet, rolled it to his room, and listened to the loud whirring.

( _I know you're retired, but this is important. Like really important, and I don't think anyone has gone back to the sanctum yet, and it seems like a really good place to start with researching magic. So maybe we should – No, be more polite. – Can you please come with me? – That's pathetic. Be more confident. How's he supposed to believe in your half-baked plan if you don't?_ )

He hung from the wall next to his tall windows. Damp rag in hand, he aggressively rubbed Windex over his smudgy finger prints.

( _Okay… so I don't actually know what I'm looking for in there. And yeah, maybe it's a long shot, and it could be a waste of time, and you're probably gonna say 'no' because you got things happening in your life. But my idea is good right? It's better than what we got, isn't it?_ )

He put the wet clothes in the dryer and dumped in a new load in the washer. Breathing in the warm scent of dryer lint and soap, he felt a knot ease inside his chest. He placed his hands flat on top of the dryer and soaked in the warmth from the vibrating metal.

_(Please, Mr. Stark. I need your help.)_

He would understand, Peter was sure of it. Once Mr. Stark understood how important this was to him, how their dwindling time together brought closer a future alone… he would help. Of course, he would.

Comforted by that thought, and unable to ignore his empty stomach any longer, Peter timidly stepped into the common area. He avoided looking at Mr. Stark as he crossed through the adjoined living room and into the kitchen. Silently, he pulled out a bowl, spoon, cereal, and milk and settled himself at the kitchen island. He kept his eyes down, but was acutely aware of Mr. Stark moving behind him. The coffee pot slid off the burner. Coffee poured and made soft splashing sounds in a mug. The stool next to him glided on the floor and Mr. Stark seated himself with a sigh. Peter kept his eyes fixed on his Count Chocula.

"Nice shirt."

Peter froze with his spoon in his mouth. Having forgotten which shirt he had thrown on, he glanced down at his chest. It was the one with a trigonometry equation on it. _Find x_ was printed above a scalene triangle. An arrow in red pen pointed towards the hypotenuse. Scrawled in red handwriting were the words: _I found it_. All in all, a solid joke, Peter thought. He smiled around his spoon and pulled it out of his mouth.

"Thanks," he mumbled through cereal.

"I don't think I've seen that one among your collection of nerd chic Tees. Did Pepper pick it up?"

Mr. Stark sipped from his mug and Peter shook his head.

"No, it's an old shirt. I just forgot about it for a long time..." His throat grew tight and he was suddenly hit with an inexplicable pang of sadness. He coughed, and pressed on: "Actually, I found it."

"That might be your worst joke yet."

"What?" Peter threw Mr. Stark a questioning look. Mr. Stark starred at him strangely, as if he were trying to decide if Peter was being stupid on purpose. He rolled his eyes and pointed at Peter's chest. Peter glanced down again, and - "Oh, yeah." He gave a flustered laughed to counter his embarrassment. Mr. Stark smirked. "I pulled this out of the school's lost and found years ago."

Peter remembered, a second too late, the exact circumstances that led up to that incident. He snapped his mouth shut and stirred the rapidly softening coco in his bowl. The milk was beginning to turn chocolaty.

"I'm waiting for the part where you get to _why_ you did that."

Peter bit the inside of his cheek.

"Uhhh… I needed a shirt."

"Because...?" Mr. Stark prompted. When Peter didn't answer he sighed. "Seriously, kid, this is storytelling 101. You got me on the edge of my seat, follow through with the reveal. Don't leave me hanging, that's just rude."

Peter considered lying. It would surely save him a headache but… there was enough secrecy between the two of them without Peter adding one more to the pile. Plus, it happened so long ago, Mr. Stark might not even care. He sighed and let his spoon rest in his bowl.

"A beaker exploded and acid ate through the shirt I was wearing," Peter rushed out and then winced when Mr. Stark's face did the surprised/angry/concerned thing. Peter's gut twisted and he smiled nervously. "Rest in peace ' _the many faces of Darth Vader'._ Spoiler alert, they're all the same face."

"Wait. Back it up a second. Were you okay?"

"Oh, yeah," Peter reassured flippantly. Mr. Stark didn't look convinced. "I washed the acid off of my skin at the sinks in the back of the chem lab. I got some light chemical burns, but no biggie. It's not like I could walk around with a holey acid wash shirt. No one would've believed I was trying to bring grunge back. Someone was bound to get suspicious."

Mr. Stark's eyes flickered critically over his face, arms, and hands, as though expecting some old, overlooked scars to appear out of nowhere. Repressing the urge to sigh again, Peter reluctantly stretched out his arms and twisted them so Mr. Stark could see for himself the unblemished skin.

"See? It was nothing, really," he added, which was apparently the wrong thing to say, if Mr. Stark's pinched brow was anything to go by.

"I'm gonna make an educated guess based on my past experience with your antics and say that by _someone_ you mean 'members of the faculty', and by _suspicious_ you mean 'get my dumb ass suspended or maybe even expelled from school for screwing around in the chemistry lab unsupervised while handling the big boy acids that are apparently strong enough to eat through shirts and burn the skin underneath it?'"

Peter blinked, unsure of what to say to that, and felt more than a little bewildered that he was getting into trouble for something that happened nearly three years ago. Wasn't there supposed to be an expiration date on that sort of thing?

"Why weren't those kept in locked cupboards anyway?" Mr. Stark grumbled while taking a sip of coffee. "Your school is well-funded. What, are they too cheap to spring for a couple padlocks? What the hell is your tuition paying for?"

Peter's cheeks reddened. The cupboards _had_ been locked, but riding the high of his newly super-powered state, it had taken him a while to realize his own strength. He'd gambled and lost in his attempt to jimmy the lock, which resulted in him accidentally crushing it in his hand like a pretzel. Mr. Stark didn't need to know about that, though, and Peter elected to keep that information to himself.

"I didn't say I was unsupervised," he said instead, purposefully excluding the rest _._

"You didn't have to. Why else would you pull someone else's dirty shirt out of the lost and found? This whole story reeks of clandestine tomfoolery," Mr. Stark looked thoughtful at that, and added: "Peter-foolery? Yeah, that has a nice, personalized ring to it."

" _Please_ don't call my screw-ups 'Peter-foolery'," he whined. Mr. Stark smirked.

"I won't call them that _out loud_. How's that for a compromise?"

An awkward lull fell over them as Peter chewed his mushy cereal. All the while wondering why he'd opened his stupid mouth in the first place.

"Well, while I'm here confessing things, I guess I stole this shirt. Seeing how it's not mine and I never put it back." He plucked at the neckline with his fingertips.

"Why didn't you call me?"

Peter's spoon froze en route to his mouth. He frowned, confused, and met Mr. Stark's stern gaze.

"Why would I?"

It wasn't often that Peter saw Mr. Stark flustered. It was short-lived, only about a second, where Peter could see him scrambling to fix his mistake. Then his composure returned and he said smoothly: "I mean Happy. You should've called him. His head of security, _'I ain't got time for this crap'_ shtick was all bravado. He would've made time for an injured teenager under my protection."

"This happened before we met," Peter clarified gently while marveling at how easily Mr. Stark could've forgotten how different things were back then. In true Mr. Stark fashion, he didn't stay fazed for long. He shrugged nonchalantly.

"Oh, so freshman Peter-foolery." Peter shot him an annoyed look. Mr. Stark didn't seem remotely sorry. "I didn't know your rebellious streak stretched back that far. Shouldn't be surprised. You've got a knack for it."

He might've had a point there. Peter had never thought of himself as 'rebellious' exactly, but then again, they'd only met because Peter was leading a secret double-life. Back then, the secrets kept from May had felt necessary… until they'd been revealed and Peter realized that they weren't. The thought made him shift uncomfortably in his seat.

"Did you at least call your aunt?" Mr. Stark asked flatly, like he already knew the answer. Peter shook his head.

"I didn't want to bother her at work," Peter justified weakly. "And, you know, I wasn't supposed to be in the Chem lab. If she found out, she'd freak out then I'd freak out, then she'd ground me forever and I didn't want that. Obviously." Mr. Stark snorted into his coffee and rolled his eyes. "No one was there besides me and I cleaned up the explosion, so I don't think anyone ever found out about it."

"Until now."

Peter nodded his head awkwardly in confirmation. There were dregs of semi-solid cereal in his bowl. He gulped them back hastily and stood to put his dishes in the dishwasher.

"Well… that laundry isn't gonna fold itself," he murmured despite there still being at least forty minutes left on the dryer's cycle. He'd wait it out in the laundry room if he had to. Anything to escape this impromptu grilling that he'd somehow managed to bring upon himself.

"Hey, hold on a sec."

Mr. Stark quickly stood as Peter turned to leave. Bracing himself, Peter turned and saw the man rubbing the back of his neck. His eyes were unfocused in a way that Peter recognized as him struggling to wrangle his thoughts.

"Kay, so…" he drawled hesitantly, "I know better than anyone that sometimes things just happen. Bad ideas don't always seem so bad until after you've done them. But you should know, I want that call – the one you didn't make - if you're sitting at school with chemical burns or chilling on top of the Chrysler Building with basically no protection..." he huffed then in tense frustration. "Seriously, kid, what was that all about?"

Peter stood stalk still. It didn't seem like Mr. Stark was truly expecting an answer but… there was his opening. A chance to talk through his scattered thoughts, to voice his dilemma, to share his plan that was really only a couple steps above of an idea.

_(So, Mr. Stark, I got a plan. Kinda. Maybe like one third of a plan and I don't think it's a bad idea. First: Find the sanctum. Second: Smash Ctrl Z. Third: Bring everyone back.)_

Mr. Stark's eyes turned shrewd, as though he could see the cogs turning in Peter's brain.

"Something on your mind, Pete?"

"Mhm… yeah. I've been thinking about some stuff since yesterday." He crossed his arms, gripping his elbows tightly to hide how his hands were starting to tremble. Mr. Stark's eyes widened in surprise, giving Peter the distinct impression that he'd expected him to say 'no'. Given everything that'd happened, it was a fair assumption. Glossing over that thought and the uneasy feelings it incited, Peter continued: "So, you know how we're scientists?"

Mr. Stark smiled encouragingly, albeit a bit perplexed. Peter was too nervous to return it.

"Scientist in training for you, my young intern, but go on."

"Right. Ummm… what I'm getting at here is that we research the stuff we don't know. It's our thing. It's what we do." Peter could see the spark in Mr. Stark's eyes trying and failing to predict where Peter was going with this. He took a deep, bracing breath. "We didn't do that this time, though, with what's happened." Apprehension began to trickle into Mr. Stark's face like a cracked flood gate. It broke when Peter said: "With the infinity stones."

The effect was immediate. Tired aggravation and pity, all rolled into one, hit Peter yet again. It chased away the light moment and all the tentative security that came with it. Everything inside Peter clenched and he regretted saying anything at all. Mr. Stark scrubbed a hand over his face.

"Kid…" came out muffled by his passing palm.

"No, no, here me out!" Peter nearly shouted, desperation pitching his voice high. "There's still so much we don't know, and you can't solve a problem if you don't understand the question. We're scientists and we're geared to think one way, but Jane Foster said that _'Magic is just science we don't understand yet'_ , that was, like, the hook of her doctoral dissertation. So maybe understanding it – magic, I mean - will give us an edge. There's gotta be more people than just Dr. Strange who understood it, and if we can find out where-"

"Enough!"

Peter stood, stunned, with his mouth hanging open. Mr. Stark rarely ever raised his voice, and while Peter didn't think he had really meant to shout at him, he had. The effect it had on him was startling. It rendered him still and at the same time, tense. Mr. Stark's hardened expression sternly conveyed a message. Peter had finally hit the limit of his patience, just as he predicted he someday would. His heart fluttered in his chest.

"You're not the only person whose thought of that. Right now, Natasha and Steve are hard at work dispensing my money and resources to track down any and all leads. Both magical and non-magical. But there are two cold hard facts to consider here. One, they've been tracking for months have nothing to show for it. Two, no one with any information has come forward, leading us to believe that they are all either dead or as clueless as we are."

"But we haven't-"

"We _have_." Mr. Stark's tone brooked no argument. The finality of that simple statement surpassed Peter's own stubbornness. Peter shifted his gaze to the oven clock, for no reason other than to avoid looking at Mr. Stark. There were thirty-five minutes until his clothes were dry.

"Hey, look at me." Peter didn't want to, but he obeyed the gentle command. When their eyes met, Mr. Stark pointed up at his own face. "Is this not the face of a guy who throws in everything and the kitchen sink into finding the solution when the problem is this serious? When I was dying of palladium poisoning, do you know how many permutations and combinations of other known elements I went through to find a replacement? All of them. Every. Single. One. You know what saved me? Dumb luck and my dad's hand holding from beyond the grave."

What?

Dying? Palladium poisoning? When did this happen? Mr. Stark seemed to realize that Peter hadn't been privy to that bit of information. He smiled sheepishly at Peter's horrified expression and shrugged as if to say _'Whoops. Thought you knew'_.

"Is that why you discovered badassium?" Peter blurted out, his enthusiasm leeching through his concern. Mr. Stark smiled fondly at the mention of one of his greatest achievements.

"My old man theorized it, I just cooked it up in my humble, little lab. Credit where credit is due, kid, never forget that. And I appreciate you calling it by the name I wanted to patent it by, not the name those humorless white-collar stiffs bullied past the courts."

They stared at each other for a moment. Peter with lingering shock and horror which made Mr. Stark's smile fade. He leaned back tiredly, one elbow against the kitchen island.

"So, why am I telling you this grim, buzz-kill of a story about my brush with death? Good question. Glad you asked." He waited for a split second, as though expecting Peter to laugh. When he didn't, his face fell. "I need you to understand that some things are out of your control and it doesn't matter how much you care or how much time you spend obsessing over it. If the information and resources are not available to you it doesn't matter how much brain power you expend on it. If SHEILD hadn't deigned me worthy of my dad's old stuff, I'd be pushing up daisies right now. Simple as that." He rubbed a hand over his chin, his eyes suddenly becoming much more focused and determined. "What I _do_ know is that the stronger you hold on to something that isn't there, the more miserable you'll be. And I don't want you to be miserable. I want you to live your life and be present for it. Your gonna graduate high school soon and start college, and those will be some of the best years of your life-"

"Okay, I get it."

Mr. Stark frowned at Peter's tone.

"I just don't want you to miss out. Obsessing like this isn't healthy-"

"I said I get it," Peter repeated curtly and turned on his heel.

"Hey, Pete," Mr. Stark called out behind him. "C'mon don't leave."

Peter ignored him. Instead, he ducked into the laundry room and shut the door firmly behind him. Sinking to the floor, his back pressed against the warm dryer, Mr. Stark's tired expression filled his mind. His gentle but firm tone that pitied Peter made his stomach squeeze.

' _Are we really starting this again?'_

He didn't even get to his point, what exactly he wanted from Mr. Stark, before he had shut him up. It was clear, he didn't want to talk about this again. He wanted Peter to give up, but he wouldn't. This just clarified for him what his options were. That was something at least.

_I'll think of something_ , he thought and dejectedly thumped his head back against machine.

* * *

Peter scrubbed furiously at a tiny red splotch. The splotch mocked him as it faded to a pinky orange hue and did not disappear. It stubbornly refused to budge despite the formidable line up of stain removers that he drowned it in. The game plan from this morning had been simple; Clean and put away everything that didn't belong to him. He didn't account for weeks old pizza sauce stains on white cotton when formulating his plan.

That night after Mr. Stark's wedding, he'd had more fun than he'd had in a while. Playing N64 games with Rhodey, he'd been so relaxed, he could've almost forgotten the reasons why he was there in the first place. Peter just wished he had been more careful. If things went well, he could remove himself from Mr. Stark's life and go back to living the one he belonged in. If he did it soon, Mr. Stark wouldn't even have to tell Peter about his plans to move out to the sticks. He could just go and raise his family. Maybe, one day, he might even share with Morgan the funny story of that one weird summer where he beta-tested his parenting skills on his intern. Honestly, that sounded like the premise of a cheesy family-friendly comedy (the kind that May liked and Ben pretended to enjoy). Someday, Peter would look back on this whole ordeal and laugh.

Probably.

If only he could get this flipping stain out.

Peter huffed through his nose and stilled his hand. The strong, sweet scent of various detergents were starting to sting his nose. He was scrubbing circles with too much force. The white fabric under his cleaning toothbrush was loosening its tight weave. He didn't want to owe Mr. Stark any more than he already did. Soon, they would be out of each other's lives, and Peter imagined that he'd rarely see Mr. Stark anymore. He'd get caught up in his life, his family, and the physical distance between them. Paying off a debt with all that in the way would be… uncomfortable. So, he'd make the amount as small as possible. Scrubbing again with renewed vigor, he cringed at the thought of how much money he'd have to shell out for just this one shirt.

Over the sound of the washer's spin cycle, Peter heard the doorknob behind him squeak.

"Oh, wow. Did you use enough detergent?" Ms. Potts wheezed between coughs. Peter turned around and was surprised to see here standing in the hall, swinging the door back and forth to air out the little laundry room. Peter hadn't realized how woozy he felt until that fresh air hit him. He rubbed the back of his hand over his snuffling nose. Ms. Potts stepped inside, leaving the door open behind her, and peered at the button-down shirt in Peter's hands. The sleeve cuff, soaked in a combination of _Tide_ , _Shout_ , and _Spray n' Wash,_ made her expression turn half wary, half amused. "I think you've done all you could for this. Any more elbow grease and you'll rip it."

Peter narrowed his eyes at the offending stain. He had half a mind to tear it to shreds out of pure frustration… but that would be counter-productive.

"What are you doing here?" He asked. Ms. Potts quirked a delicate eyebrow at him and Peter realized, this being her home and all, how stupid and rude he sounded. "I mean, you're not normally home so early."

Ms. Potts shrugged and leaned her hip against the washer.

"There's some perks to being the boss, like I can leave whenever it suits me."

Peter cocked his head.

"You wouldn't do that…" he drew out hesitantly. The corners of Ms. Potts mouth quirked up.

"Wouldn't I?"

"No," he said with more confidence. He had sneaking suspicion that he already knew what had happened. "That sounds like something Mr. Stark would do."

Ms. Potts smiled, though Peter thought he saw a knowing look pass through her eyes.

"Well, when you're around someone constantly for the better part of two decades, I suppose some mannerisms will start to rub off on you."

Peter wasn't swayed. He knew that Ms. Potts' integrity didn't bend. She wasn't the type to ditch work without a solid reason, and Peter couldn't shake the nagging feeling that she was purposefully misleading him. He knew that she was capable of lying by omission. After all, it was her idea, not Mr. Stark's, to keep Peter in the dark about their intentions to move out of the city. There might be other things she was keeping between the two of them. Things that pertained to Peter. He frowned and persisted.

"He asked you to come home, didn't he?" He meant to ask that lightly, but it came out like an accusation. He curled his fingers tightly into the shirt in his hands. Ms. Potts smile became wooden, and Peter knew he had guessed right. For a moment, it seemed like she might deny it and carry on with handling him with kid gloves. She and Mr. Stark had been wearing those gloves all summer, why take them off now? But to his surprise, her smile fell and her demeanor shifted.

"Yes, he did."

Peter said nothing for a moment. He fiddled a button between his fingertips. He really hadn't expected her to be honest with him, even when confronted with the truth. She was eyeing him calmly, in the way that made Peter feel like she was waiting for him without any expectation for him to hurry. That look always made him feel guilty. Like he was wasting her time.

"Because of me, right?" he asked even though he already knew. His cheeks grew hot. "You didn't have to come, Mr. Stark's just overreacting."

Ms. Potts didn't agree or disagree with that. Honestly, Peter was surprised that she didn't immediately jump into the _'Mr. Stark's overreacting again'_ camp. She complained about his overbearing nature enough for Peter to feel justified in thinking that. Instead she turned her attention away from him and gestured to the large stacks of neatly folded clothes piled up on top of the dryer.

"What's all this about?"

Peter's mouth went dry, though he wasn't sure why. He swallowed thickly.

"Tryna get this stupid stain out," he mumbled bitterly and tossed the shirt on to the stacks. The toothbrush landed on the dryer with a tiny clang.

"I can see that, but why?"

Peter looked at her curiously.

"What do you mean, 'why'? It's dirty."

"I mean that you're about as neat and clean as the average teenager gets. But Tony tells me that you've been busy all day, intensely cleaning the apartment, and now I suspect that you might be covering up a murder."

Oh, so they were talking about him, were they? It must've been another text conversation, because Peter didn't hear them having a hushed, gossipy phone call. His arms crossed over his chest.

"Are you _seriously_ getting mad at me for doing too many chores?"

"No one's mad," she said softly, "but I'm not going to pretend that it's not concerning to see you get so upset about a stain."

"I'm _not_ upset."

Ms. Potts hummed lightly, like she was humoring him with her agreement. From anyone else, that would've felt insulting, but Ms. Potts had a way of mollifying disagreement without being patronizing. She was looking at him patiently again, like she had all the time in the world to speak with him. It made Peter nervous.

"Peter," she murmured. "Did something happen?"

A weight sank into Peter's chest.

' _I don't know, you tell me.'_ he thought irritably. He was tempted to say it too, but he'd held himself back. The urge to demand from her – from _both_ of them – why they thought it was okay to gate-keep vital information from him, grew fiercer the longer he stewed on it.

' _We'll tell him later when he's gotten more comfortable around us.'_

But what if he never got comfortable with them? Would they never tell him? If he hadn't found out on his own, when would've they gotten around to it? Before Thanksgiving? Christmas? The new year? What if they made up some other bullshit criteria to justify their secret keeping? Peter was an orphan from a lower-middle class family with virtually no financial assets and he had no current paying job. He would've been screwed if they'd decided to drag their feet and not tell him until the end of the school year.

He bit his tongue and tucked all that away. Ms. Potts was looking at him sadly, and as angry as he was with her, he couldn't stand to see her looking like that. He forced a smile which felt painfully out of place on his face. Judging by the look Ms. Potts was giving him, he probably looked constipated.

"There's no dead body in the closet, I swear."

"Good to hear," she said, deadpan, and completely unphased by his humor. It took Peter a second to remember who he was dealing with. Ms. Potts tangled with Mr. Stark on the daily. His deflections had no power here. "You know you can talk to me, right? I get that you and Tony are your own little team, but if there's something you need to talk about that you can't with him, I'm here."

Peter nodded his head vaguely, while silently wondering in what world he and Mr. Stark could be considered a team. He kept that to himself too, knowing how disappointed Ms. Potts would be if she knew how hollow all of this was. Her sincerity was genuine, if not misplaced, and Peter couldn't help but be moved by it despite the fact that he had absolutely no intention of spilling his guts to his mentor's wife. That would be a whole new level of pathetic. Ms. Potts seemed to sense his reluctance. Her expression became contemplative, as though she were weighing her next words carefully.

"I know these past few months have been difficult – _more than difficult_ \- and especially now with your birthday coming up… it's probably bringing up a lot of complicated feelings-"

"It's not that," Peter rushed out. His heart gave a sickening jolt. It wasn't that he had _forgotten_ his birthday – he had been thinking about it on and off for weeks – but it had temporarily slipped his mind. Even though Peter knew it was the day after tomorrow, to have it acknowledged outside of his own thoughts made it feel… imminent. His pulse hastened. His palm grew clammy. Ms. Potts was looking at him with a timid sort of warmth.

"No? Then what is it?"

Peter stared back at her, wide-eyed and defiantly silent. He imagined that this is how a raccoon must feel when confronted with headlights. The moment stretched out and Ms. Potts, who had never directed her frustration at Peter before, murmured in sad desperation: " _What happened?"_

Peter knew what she was thinking of: the Chrysler Building, his moodiness… all of it. This entire summer. He knew he was being unfair treating them like this. Especially Ms. Potts who, having met Peter only once before, had opened her home to a literal stranger. Peter knew that Mr. Stark didn't make unilateral decisions. If Ms. Potts wasn't okay with the idea of guardianship, Peter wouldn't be here. The compassion that motivated her choice was awe-inspiring. Ms. Potts deserved so much better than what Peter was.

But they were also being unfair to him. Peter's brash temper was getting more unruly with each passing day. It had been the source of his guilt for weeks as he failed to keep it contained. He was being a dick, but he had thought that he was the only one. As it turned out, he was just the louder dick. Mr. Stark and Ms. Potts were more subtle about it. Before yesterday, he'd had no _idea_ that he was being strung along. That they'd be cutting ties in less than a year. That seemed to be way more unfair than what Peter was doing, but that reassurance did very little to ease his twisting stomach.

"I don't want to talk about it."

"I know," she said. "But nothing's going to get better until you do."

Ms. Potts' hand twitched then, as though tempted to reach out to him before she thought better of it. Her hand landed lightly on the washer. Peter followed the quick action with his eyes, wishing that she hadn't restrained herself. It was strange that he still felt that way, and he wondered how he could even after everything that had happened.

"You don't have to talk to me, or Tony, but you should talk to _someone_ about this."

Ahhh, there it was. The thing that Mr. Stark – and apparently Ms. Potts – wouldn't take no for an answer. Peter nodded his head vaguely.

"Yes, ma'am," he mumbled sullenly, already annoyed by the topic. He didn't expect Ms. Potts to straighten up as though she'd been electrocuted, and to level him with crackling, narrowed eyes. Peter took a tiny, involuntary step back.

"I draw the line at ' _ma'am'_. You're not my employee, you're-" she cut herself off and Peter saw her swallow the rest of her words. She sighed and ran a hand over her head. Her hair didn't move an inch from its sleek ponytail. "I'd prefer that you call me 'Pepper', but seeing as how you're not comfortable with that, 'Ms. Potts' will do. 'Ma'am' is much too formal. I won't have you calling me that."

Peter nodded again, this time with a little more vigor. It was disarming, to be reprimanded with such kind ferocity. It reminded him of May and the way that he would get on her last nerve while knowing that she wouldn't stay mad for long. He kind of wished Ms. Potts would just yell at him for being a brat and then storm off and leave him alone. That would be much simpler for both of them. Peter wouldn't have to dodge her sympathy at every turn and Ms. Potts wouldn't feel obligated to interrupt her life to deal with him.

' _Win-win,'_ he thought and then winced. It really didn't feel like winning. His arms relaxed and dropped to his sides.

"I'm sorry I make your life hard."

Ms. Potts shook her head.

"Don't be sorry. You make it _interesting_ , not hard," she corrected. Peter smiled shakily at her kind rewording. She shrugged one shoulder and added: "All the best people in my life share that trait. I find that keeping things interesting is worth it for the adventure, even if I do get a headache. If the time comes that you make things a bit _too_ interesting then I'll let you know loud and clear that you owe me an apology."

Her warning was accompanied with a smile that carried an air of seriousness. Peter pressed his lips together. He could feel thin ice cracking under his feet.

"Alright," Ms. Potts said around a yawn. Her hand settled absentmindedly over her rounding stomach. "I need sandwiches. Peanut butter ones to be exact. And then maybe a nap… and yes, I would be napping anyway even if Tony hadn't called. That's why there's a couch in my office." She winked at Peter, who was barely listening to her. His mind was fixated on what she'd said… when she'd lumped him in with her _best people_. Ms. Potts eyes searched his expression. "Think I can tempt you away from the murder cover up long enough for a late lunch?"

Peter had _best people_ of his own, and he'd nearly given up on them. He'd grown too comfortable, he realized, as his insides knotted. It had frustrated him before, feeling isolated in Mr. Stark's life. But he had finally done it, he'd gotten comfortable in the Stark's lives… and in doing so he'd become comfortable with his loss. He didn't want one at the expense of the other, but it was unavoidable. He'd allowed this to carry on for so long that he'd become one of Ms. Potts' best people.

"Peter?"

He'd loved May. He'd lost May. And in a disgustingly short amount of time, he'd replaced her.

"I'll bring you one," Ms. Potts murmured, but then paused and scrunched up her nose. "Actually, I'll bring you two. And an apple. You really don't eat enough fruits and veggies."

She turned to leave and Peter's heart clenched.

' _God, Pep. Nothing about this is easy. Not a damn thing.'_

She made it a couple of steps before Peter threw his arms around her middle. A tiny, surprised _'oh'_ escaped her as she stopped suddenly and Peter's chin bumped against her shoulder. She let out a huffy laugh and reached a hand blindly around her body to clumsily patted his cheek. Peter tilted his face so it was hidden in her shoulder.

He loved Ms. Potts too. He wasn't exactly sure when that had happened. It had crept up on him when he wasn't paying attention. He knew what was coming. He knew he would lose something special when the Starks moved on without him. He would miss them, and yet from here, the regret didn't sting quite as badly as it had before.

' _Bye,'_ he thought and squeezed his arms tighter.

* * *

The next day, Peter went out into the city without telling anyone. That was an impressive accomplishment in and of itself because Mr. Stark had been watching him like a hawk; aloof, scrutinizing, and from a distance. Though he hadn't really told Peter not to leave, there was a sort of unspoken understanding between them: stay put. He'd heard a few snatched words here and there, whispered between him and his wife: _'strange', 'erratic', 'don't know what to do, Pep',_ to name a few.

It was fine. Okay, it was mildly irritating to be constantly talked about, but it was _fine_ because Peter knew what to do even if Mr. Stark didn't. He repeated that to himself as he disengaged the patchwork FRIDAYs that were framing his window. It was necessary, because he and Mr. Stark didn't see eye to eye on this… and now he wasn't willing to talk about the problem anymore. Mr. Stark was content with things as they were now, and why shouldn't he be? He'd managed to keep nearly everyone he loved. But Peter knew he'd never be happy again in this world. Not when that meant forfeiting his family. Without any remorse, he fiddled with the brackets and watched the little green lights flicker off.

With the amount of stealthy sneaking it took to slip away, it was almost anticlimactic for him to set foot in something as boring as a second hand electronics store and walk out with an external hard drive.

As far as hard drives went, it was cheap, but it still managed to put a sizable dent in Peter's savings account. He cringed as he handed the money to the cashier, reducing his account balance to fifteen dollars and twenty-five cents, but it was gratifying to know that it was bought with _his_ money not Mr. Stark's. The credit card that Mr. Stark had given him nearly a month ago remained untouched and sandwiched in his wallet between his driver's license and a _Pinkberry_ gift card.

When he got home, he removed all of his files off of the sleek, duct tape free laptop that Mr. Stark had given him. He wiped it, set it back to its factory settings, and set it down on the desk. Good as new and just as it had been when it was given to him.

He'd swiped a pair of scissors from the kitchen and cut the credit card over the trash can beside his desk.

From his shelves, he carefully pulled his and Ned's Lego car down. He slid his English notebook and May's cook book out from the bookshelf. He took Ben's glasses out from his bedside table drawer. Perched on his knees with the open suitcase in front of him, he nestled them among his folded clothes. He closed the lid and took a moment to survey the room.

Perfect. Orderly. Not a hair out of place. It was almost as if Peter hadn't lived there at all.

_Tap, tap, tap._

"Peter?" Mr. Stark's voice, muffled through his door, was thick and groggy. "Damn, kid, why're you still up? Anything that _needs_ to be done at three in the morning can wait. Go to bed."

Peter glanced at his alarm clock. Bright numbers, 3:12 am, prickled at his tired eyes.

Whoops. How did that happen? He staggered to his feet.

"Sure thing, Mr. Stark," he called quietly so as to not disturb the silence in the apartment.

The shadows of Mr. Stark's feet darkened the gap under his door. Sitting down heavily on the bed, Peter watched them and waited for him to leave. A long, awkward moment passed and the shadows remained motionless. Peter was about to ask what he wanted when Mr. Stark said: "Happy Birthday, Kid."

Peter closed his eyes, letting his head fall back on the pillow. It was past midnight and in to the early hours of August tenth. He was finally seventeen and May was still dead. He let out a long breath and heard Mr. Stark's heavy footstep walking away.

"Thanks…" he trailed off, too late for him to have heard. From the kitchen, he heard the faucet turn on and a glass fill with water. For a moment, Peter thought to follow him. He couldn't sleep anyway, not with this looming over his head. He needed to keep busy and 3am pancakes sounded pretty good right about now.

He sat up, excitedly, but then as his feet landed on the floor, he became frozen to the spot. Mr. Stark had cautioned him, hadn't he? He'd told him not to hold on to something that isn't there… and 3 am pancakes really didn't help the 'cool distance' thing that Peter was going for. That was his choice. All or nothing, and he had to stick to one or the other.

He stood and flicked off the lights instead. In spite a million frazzled nerves, he crawled into bed crashed before his head hit the pillow.


	17. Combustion

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We're heading into the woods, folks!

As it turned out, pancakes were going to be a part of Peter's near future regardless of whether he made them or not. The smell of frying batter had been enough to wake him, and rubbing his eyes blearily, he followed his nose into the kitchen. Ms. Potts was standing over the stove, her back facing Peter as he slipped into the kitchen. She spoke softly with Mr. Stark, who was leaning against the counter beside her.

"What about before six?" Mr. Stark asked.

"I can't. In between stopping to pick up take-out and the cake, there won't be enough time." Ms. Potts said, flipping a pancake. It landed with sizzling crackles.

"You know you got a personal assistant to do all that stuff, right? Uhhh… Sandra, wasn't it?"

"No, I don't. _Samantha_ is gone and I haven't been able find someone among the applicants who I trust enough to replace her position." There was a pause before she added defensively: "And even if she _was_ still alive, she's not my gofer. I would never waste her time running around the city, doing my petty errands."

Mr. Stark opened his mouth to respond, but then noticed Peter out of the corner of his eye. Turning, he smiled crookedly as his gaze flicked up to his floofy, unkempt bed-head.

"Morning, kid. Happy Birthday!"

Peter struggled to smile, as his stomach turned queasy. The result was weak. _Sorry, Samantha,_ he thought sadly, and moved on. He stifled a yawn behind his hand. Ms. Potts threw a fond look over her shoulder and chimed in her own _happy birthday_ wish before turned her attention back to the stove.

"Thanks," Peter said tiredly but sincerely as he walked to the fridge. He was surprised to see Ms. Potts home at this time of day, when she was normally at work. He nearly asked about that, but held himself back as the obvious answer came to him; she'd taken time off work for his sake again. Except this time, she'd apparently planned it.

It was her choice to make, Peter supposed as he pulled open the fridge. No matter how he insisted that she didn't need to bother with him, she did anyway and that was… fine. He had made his feelings clear, to reiterate it again was just redundant… and maybe a bit insulting. He didn't want to come across as unappreciative. He silently loaded various condiments and beverages in his arms.

"There's no shame in making two trips," Mr. Stark said as Peter backed away carefully from the still open fridge. The jar of strawberry jam tucked into the crook of his elbow threatened to slip, and the pinky finger that he had hooked through the plastic handle of the syrup bottle was beginning to ache. But it was okay. He had this.

"I can make it, don't worry. I believe in me."

"Well, _I believe_ that you're about to drop apple juice on the floor," He said, plucking the teetering carton out of Peter's arms. "I mean, if you want to start your birthday by mopping a sticky floor, I guess that's your business. Who am I to stop you?" He closed the fridge and followed behind Peter to the table. The cutlery and plates were already laid out. Peter awkwardly set the load down and smiled proudly when nothing tipped over.

"See? That's skill and years of practice, right there."

"Oh, I don't doubt," Mr. Stark said lightly while helping to arrange the condiments in the center of the table. "Now, the real question is how many casualties got splattered on the floor while honing that skill? I'm gonna ball park guess between five and ten."

Peter an indignant noise, but before he could think of a good come back, Ms. Potts joined them carrying a large, steaming tray of pancakes. Any retort he had was instantly chased from his mind. They sat down and ate, and it was… nice.

Mr. Stark was like a completely different person. It was almost as if the other day hadn't happened. Instead of cautious reproach, he rambled and threw jokes out between bites of pancakes. Peter ate his own quietly, while trying not to appear outwardly perturbed. The change back and forth was jarring, and Peter floundered to get a handle on the situation. Ms. Potts, the blessed saint that she was, knew just when to fill the conversation when Peter didn't know what to say.

"So, I was thinking that after this we'd head out," Mr. Stark said cheerfully, waving his fork vaguely over his plate. Peter blinked, confused by the glaringly obvious oversight in his plan. He glanced at Ms. Potts for help, but she quietly sipped her tea.

"Ummm… most places are closed," he gently said, as though he were disclosing a secret. Like Mr. Stark hadn't been outside in months and wasn't aware of the abandoned business dotting every street.

"Key word being ' _most_ '," he countered. "Some businesses have managed to recuperate and I happen to know for a fact that there is a sweet looking arcade open on west 74th street."

Peter knew the one. It was the same empty arcade that he had walked past a few weeks ago. The one that he'd imagined himself and Ned walking into and wasting all of their money with their very limited impulse control. He tried to imagine Mr. Stark in there instead of Ned. He thought of him playing a racing simulation game. The mental image of him, in his fancy _Tom Ford_ suit and sunglasses, sitting astride a neon coloured, plastic motorcycle nearly made him cringe.

"Oh, they reopened? Last I saw, it was abandoned. Good for them," he rambled, his voice a bit too high. He took a sip of his apple juice and thought quickly of how to phrase, as politely as he could, that he didn't want a pity hang-out. Having no friends would make his birthday quiet, but it was preferable to Mr. Stark (and maybe Ms. Potts too?) pretending to enjoy kid stuff.

He was at a loss. There was no kind way to say that, and he was taking too long. Mr. Stark was looking at him impatiently.

"So, it's settled? We're going to the arcade?"

Peter bit his lip.

"I don't know if-"

"Or we could go out and see a movie," said Mr. Stark before Peter could finish. "But I figure we do enough of that just sitting around at home, right? I own a private theater so we _could_ be immersed in a galaxy far, far away in comfort. That's on the table."

"I don't-"

"Or we could go to the beach. We haven't really gone out at all this summer, and you opted out of going to Hawaii with Pepper and me. What about Coney Island?"

Peter inhaled deeply and suppressed the urge to yell just to be heard.

"Like the beach or the amusement park?"

"Either. Both. Yeah, we could do both," he offered enthusiastically. "Or maybe it would be too hot for that? These past few weeks have been scorching. Can't have either of you getting heat stroke. Doing something indoors would mean having AC, but if you really want the beach-"

"Tony, give him a chance to think," Ms. Potts murmured before reaching over and clamping a hand firmly over his. She gave Mr. Stark a meaningful look, which seemed to derail his stumbling speech. Peter saw his fingers give Ms. Potts' a quick squeeze. Refocusing her gaze on Peter, she said: "We don't have to do anything if you would rather stay home. There's no pressure to go out if you don't want to."

Peter's shoulders dropped. It hadn't occurred to him that there would be an option to not celebrate. But as Ms. Potts presented the out, he was surprised to feel a knot loosen in his stomach. He hadn't fully realized how deeply he'd been dreading this day, and what would've been expected of him, until it had been removed.

"I'd rather stay in… if that's _really_ alright."

Ms. Potts smiled warmly and Peter couldn't help but smile back. Then he caught sight of Mr. Stark's troubled face, and his heart sank. Suddenly, he wasn't hungry anymore.

"May I be excused?" he asked abruptly. Both of his guardians looked equally surprised.

"You're done already?" Mr. Stark sounded bewildered. "You've only had three. Who are you, and where's the kid with hollow legs?"

Ms. Potts shot her husband a sharp look, and Peter was certain that if they were sitting closer, she would've elbowed him in the ribs.

"I'll put the left-overs in the fridge, in case you get hungry later."

Peter mumbled a _thanks_ , rinsed his plate and utensils and put them in the dish washer. He moved to help clear the table, but Ms. Potts reassured him she'd take care of it. As he rounded the corner into the hallway, he saw Ms. Potts giving Mr. Stark her trademark exasperated look. She rolled her wrist in a circular motion, gradually slowing the pace of each rotation. Mr. Stark sighed and dropped his head in his hands.

"I know, I know. Told you I'm not great at it."

Peter frowned, confused, but kept moving. It's not like he had anywhere to be, but an ominous feeling spurred him on. His walking pace almost felt like a sprint.

* * *

With nothing to do and no one to talk to, Peter soon found himself climbing the walls of his room (figuratively, of course. He had only just cleaned his finger prints off of the paint). Throwing on a fresh t-shirt and his jeans from the day before, he fell back on his bed and stared blankly at the ceiling. He reached over to his bedside table and closed his fingers around his phone. He lifted it up above his face and nudged the button on the side. The lock screen picture of himself, Ned, and MJ, sporting yellow blazers at decathlon regionals lit up. The time lay over top of them:

 _10:25 am_.

Dinner was after six. That was almost eight hours to slog through on his own. And he would have to do it all over again the next day, and the day after that…

Even with Peter's lukewarm plans, realistically speaking, it would likely take a long time for him to iron out the kinks. He still had no clue what he was walking into and he would need to do a substantial amount of research before he attempted to find the Sanctum. Anything less would be stupid and dangerous, even by his standards. His cheeks puffed out. Dropping his phone beside him, he blew out a long, tired breath.

God. This was torture.

In the corner of his window, the light glinted off of the metal patchwork FRIDAY bracket. Its green light remained off. No one would know if he left. For a moment, he thought of filling those hours with a Spider-Man patrol. But Karen had already proven herself to be a tattletale and Peter was certain that if he put on the suit that Mr. Stark would be needlessly concerned about him feeling the need to work on his birthday.

He sat bolt upright. Pulling open his bedside table drawer, he snatched out the two thin metal squares resting in there. He threw one at the underside of his pale wrist and watched it unfold and encircle it. He did the same to the other one and climbed up his window before he could second guess his decision. In one fluid motion, he slid the glass pane open and leaped out into the warm air.

He plummeted and felt his heart in his throat. A grin overtook his face as he shot out a web. He suppressed the urge to shout and laugh like a maniac. He was out of his suit… he couldn't draw attention to himself. Instead he silently soared through narrow allys, weaved through skyscrapers, and jumped across low rooftops.

Adrenaline coursed through his veins, but without a motivator it didn't last. No one was chasing him, nor was he pursing a criminal. The short-lived rush was ebbing away, taking with it his desire to do much of anything. He found a flat roof of an old warehouse and settled on it. In between a tall air duct and the door leading from the roof he strung up a hammock made of his webs.

He laid back and gave a content sigh. The sky was cloudless. The hot sun beat down on him. He lifted a hand to shield his eyes from the light. One of his legs slung over the side of the hammock and the toe of his shoe lazily scraped against the roof, back and forth. He reached into his jeans' pocket and pulled out his phone again…

_11:02 am._

"You gotta be kidding me! It hasn't even been half an hour? _How_?" He groaned and flung his arm over his face. He recoiled in disgust when his nose buried into his sweaty elbow. "Ugh! Yuck…"

Thoroughly disgruntled, he turned on his side and cast a half-hearted glare at the city skyline. A few streets over, a large patch of greenery sat surrounded on all sides by tall buildings: Central Park.

' _I come to Central Park to read whenever the weather's nice. This is_ _my_ _thing. I'm acting normal. They're the ones who're crying over a bunch of damn rocks.'_

Peter wondered if Gwen was there now, refusing to give up her happy place and pissing off the mourners with her bright colours. The thought made him smile even as his heart squeezed.

Isolation was suffocating, regardless of the fact that it was self-imposed. He wanted company, but not from anyone who was invested in his life. Some light conversation without any deeper meaning would be a nice break from the pitying looks he'd grown used to seeing. With Gwen, there wouldn't be any heavy topics to dance around. He could go for some asinine chatter about B rated trash entertainment. Really, he _needed_ to find that, but he also refused to set foot in Central Park again. Gwen might not be there anyway.

 _Thank God for social media_ , he thought as he sat up. Sitting cross-legged, he hunched over his phone and began his search. Finding the right _Gwen Stacy_ wasn't difficult, and in no time at all Peter found himself scrolling through her public Instagram.

There were pictures of her with friends, all of them dressed in grey and blue school uniforms. Pictures of her, middle school-aged and with longer hair, gripping drum sticks and grinning from behind a drum set that dwarfed her. Pictures of her and a little boy standing on the deck of a sailboat in New York harbor. It was night time and she leaned against the railing with the boy clinging to her leg. Above, fireworks exploded red, white and blue, but the tall blond man next to them wasn't looking at the show. He was staring at the kids with such clear adoration that Peter knew instinctively that he was Gwen's dad.

A blush that had nothing to do with the weather crept up Peter's face. He felt like he was intruding on a private moment, despite the picture being public. He averted his eyes down. They landed on a picture of Gwen and a teenaged boy, who Peter recognized a moment later as Harry, playing chess on one of those concrete tables with the built-in chess board. It was Central Park. The _old_ Central Park. How it used to be before it was turned into a memorial. Gwen was playing white and Harry black. Gwen had captured a few black pieces, while Harry had a much more substantial pile of the white ones. That might account for why Gwen was pouting and Harry was smiling smugly.

Peter forcefully pushed it all from his mind and refocused himself. He wanted company, even if it was only through a phone screen. Quickly, before he could give himself a chance to chicken out, he sent Gwen a DM.

' _Hey'_

He stared intensely at the three-letter word, already regretting his decision. He was halfway through typing out a lame and absolutely transparent _'sorry, wrong person,'_ damage control text when the three dots appeared on her side of the conversation, followed by:

' _Hey, who is this?'_

He could bail now. That was totally an option.

' _Peter'_ He wrote. And then a second later added: _'Peter Parker'_

' _Oh, hey. What's up?'_

Peter's shoulders sagged and his fingers tightened nervously. He considered her words and started to type:

' _It's my birthday today'_ He stopped and hastily deleted it. _'All my friends are-'_ he deleted that even faster. What was wrong with him? That was _way_ too much information, not to mention Gwen likely didn't care about his poor, little feelings. He settled on: _'Not much. You?'_

Her reply came quick.

' _Kind of bored tbh.'_

' _Wanna hang out?'_ Peter sent, and then froze in horror. Oh, God, why did he do that? They were acquaintances at best, of course she wouldn't want to see him! Plus, they were only talking because Peter had hunted her down online… that probably didn't speak in favor of his character. His thumbs flew over the keyboard and he had typed out: _'Sorry. That was weird. I don't know why I-'_ , when she replied back:

' _Yeah, sure.'_

Peter's mouth fell open. He worked it open and closed confusedly a couple times before snapping it shut and sitting up a little taller.

' _Where do you want to meet?'_ he asked. A moment later, she sent him the location of a bubble tea shop in Brooklyn.

Peter hopped up excitedly and nearly fell on his face when one of his feet became tangled in the hammock. He staggered but managed to keep his balance. His phone wasn't so lucky. Wincing, he righted himself and reach down to pick it up. The crack in the bottom corner had grown a bit, but overall, it wasn't too bad. Could've been worse.

He gave the pinged location one last look before pocketing his phone and taking a running start for the edge of the warehouse. His webs caught him and he swung a few blocks when his phone buzzed against his leg.

' _I need a few minutes, but I'll be there soon. Get a cold drink so you don't melt away.'_

Under that, she sent him a kawaii ice cream cone gif. It was melting painfully, with its face silently screaming under dripping ice cream while its stick arms writhed in agony.

Peter smiled as his free hand tucked his phone away. Glancing up again, his heart shot into his throat when he nearly swung headlong into a widow. He swerved frantically out of the way, somersaulted midair and caught himself.

' _Focus up, Parker!'_ he berated himself. With his nerves subsiding, he focused on the location he was headed, and the best way to get there undetected. Idly, he wondered what had come up for Gwen but pushed the distraction from his mind.

* * *

The bubble tea shop was small and cheery. There were only six tables inside, each separated by a gap so narrow that Peter felt vaguely claustrophobic just looking at it. Book shelves lined the walls, shrinking the appearance of the interior even further, and colourful spines of comic books and manga novels enticed him to stay and read. A doorbell sounded over the low radio when Peter stepped through the doorway. A man behind the counter perked up at his arrival. He was the only person in the shop.

"Hi! Can I get you anything?" he greeted with a desperate smile. Peter smiled wanely. He placed his order, his meager fifteen dollars and twenty-five cents whimpering pitifully as he selected from the pricier side of the menu. This poor guy clearly needed the business.

Peter watched the barista making his drink, when a thought occurred to him: he didn't know what Gwen wanted to drink. He pulled out his phone and brought up their message thread, but then hesitated. Out of courtesy, he should get her something, right? That was the decent thing to do since he was the one who'd invited her. But… what if she misconstrued the gesture as him making this a date? It was most definitely _not_ a date. But if he didn't get her anything, that would be kind of rude, wouldn't it?

He scrolled up hurriedly and reread their conversation thread, trying to find any unintentional double meaning from his side to suggest that this wasn't a casual meeting of… aquaintance-ish friends. Staring at the final message, he weighed his options for too long and finally his phone screen gave up on him and went dark. The barista set his drink down, and Peter took it with an absentminded ' _thanks_ '. A second later, the doorbell beeped and Peter turned to see Gwen crossing the threshold.

"Hi," he said too loudly for the small and quiet space. His voice came out all high and panicky and Gwen gave him a startled look.

"Hey." She waved at him with her free hand, the other held a grocery bag. Pointy box corners strained against the thin plastic and Peter eyed it curiously. "The usual for me, Grady, thanks," she said to the barista and strode to the table that was furthest away from the counter. Peter followed behind her.

"You have a usual?"

She shrugged her purse off of her shoulder and set the grocery bag gently on the table.

"I won't lie, I chose to meet here for philanthropic reasons. Grady's just reopened, and I'm trying to support local business in this newly garbage-ified economy."

Peter hummed and took a seat while Gwen went to fetch her drink.

"Thanks for coming," he said when she rejoined him. She sat opposite him and flapped a hand flippantly.

"No problem. I needed to get out of the house."

Gwen set her cup down and stabbed a straw through the seal in the top. She seemed to be purposefully ignoring the grocery bag that sat next to it and took up the majority of the table space.

"What's in the bag?" Peter asked politely. Gwen glanced up with a devious glint in her eye, as though she'd been waiting for him to ask. Rolling down the rustling plastic, she revealed various packets of candy resting on top of a white bakery box.

"Happy Birthday."

Peter blinked and Gwen's smile broadened at his shock. She swept the candy packets off of the box and on to the table.

"How do you know it's my birthday?"

Her smile faded, and Peter saw something somber flicker across her face. It was gone as she lifted the lid to reveal two fairly large vanilla frosted cupcakes.

"I thought it was kind of weird that you contacted me out of the blue like that, so I did some light social media digging and the plot thickened." She glanced up at him seriously then, as though she were picking her words carefully. "I get it. This sucks. No need to explain why it sucks," she parroted his words from that day in Central Park, and then shrugged. "I thought maybe cupcakes would help it suck less."

Peter stared, too stunned to do anything but blink. The moment stretched out too long and Gwen's confidence seemed to wilt.

"Thank you," he said quietly, but sincerely, and Gwen's diminished enthusiasm perked up again. She reached her hand in the box and placed one of the cupcakes in front of him.

"The bakery section of my local Safeway only had sad, boring vanilla. So I bought these to spice it up." She gestured to the many candy packets littering the table.

Peter considered the array thoughtfully, and contemplating how best to utilize them. In between sips of tea and munching on M&Ms, he and Gwen bounced ideas back and forth. It was decided that they'd have a contest to see who could build the best scene on top of their cupcake.

"It can be from anything," said Gwen. "Movie, book, tv, or just made up. We'll decide between us who's the winner."

And with those incredibly loose rules, they set off. Peter wracked his mind, and after some thought, decided to recreate a scene from _Cast Away_. The one where Tom Hanks escapes a deserted island, but in doing so lost his only friend to the ocean (never mind that the friend also happened to be a volleyball).

With tunneled focus, he fashioned a raft out of pretzel sticks. He lay a gummy bear version of Tom Hanks in his icing ocean and pealed a Red Vine apart to create a short, thin rope tethering him to the raft. In his mind he could hear _'Wilson!'_ as he debated on whether to represent the volleyball using a gobstopper, for the spherical shape, or a severed gummy bear head, for the face.

He glanced up, and stifled a laugh when he saw Gwen's cupcake.

"Are those Sour Patch Kids summoning Satan?"

Gwen had also pealed a Red Vine into thin ropes, and arranged them in the shape of a pentagram. On the tip of each of the five points, a Sour Patch Kid stood partially sunk into the icing to keep them up right. On the table, Gwen had placed gummy worms, cut in half to shorten their length and with pretzel sticks pushed in one end like a pike. She was in the process of sliding the pretzel sticks into the center of the star and the effect made it appear as though the worms were emerging from the depths of the cake.

"No, they're summoning Cthulhu. The gummy worms are his tentacles. See?" Her tone suggested that Peter should've been able to guess that. When she glanced up from her work, smirking playfully, her gaze landed on Peter's creation. She frowned. "What's yours supposed to be?"

Peter, making a snap decision, placed the gobstopper in the ocean.

"Cast Away," he said with equal seriousness. "That scene where Tom Hanks loses Wilson in the ocean and he floats away."

"Mmmm… I see it now." Gwen nodded appreciatively. A muffled _'ting!'_ sounded from inside her purse, but she ignored it. "We'll call this one a tie."

The bag _'tinged!'_ again. Peter glanced between it and Gwen, but she seemed content to ignore her incoming texts.

"Do you need to go? You don't have to stay if I'm keeping you from something."

Gwen shook her head irritably and slouched in her chair.

"No, it's just Harry being… Harry," she sighed. "Don't get me wrong. He's my closest friend and I love the guy, but he's always been _super_ high maintenance. I didn't mind so much when I had my own home to go back to but now that we live together, it's exhausting."

"Oh." Peter popped a few Reeces Pieces in his mouth and chewed them thoughtfully. "So you're hiding out from him?" He could understand that. After all, he was hiding out from his guardians. He regretted his choice of words when Gwen's jaw set firmly.

"No, I'm not! I just need a break sometimes," she shot back.

"I'm sorry, that came out wrong. I didn't mean to offend you. What I _meant_ is…" he trailed off, not knowing exactly what it was that he meant. He could sympathize with her plight, but having confronted the fact, even only to himself, that he was hiding from Mr. Stark made him feel… uneasy. "I don't know. Never mind. I Should probably get back soon anyway. My guardians took time off of work to be with me on my birthday and I don't want to be rude and ignore them but… things have been weird between us, y'know?"

"Mmm, yeah. Me better than anyone, I think," Gwen said ruefully and took a sip of her tea. "Harry's family is nothing like mine and as grateful as I am to have a place to stay, living _with_ him and his dad has been, like, culture shock. Or at least social class shock. My dad was the NYPD chief of police and we weren't poor but, damn, living in the top one percent financial margin has been a trip. And not the good kind."

Peter cocked his head, trying to process the odd direction that the conversation had turned.

"So… the bad kind?" he asked lamely, just for the sake of saying something. Gwen snorted a laugh and pushed a hand through her hair.

"Something like that. More like the highly impersonal and cold type, I guess. Harry's used to it, but I'm not. It's a learning curve that I never wanted to be set on."

Peter winced. He wanted to ask more, but didn't want to come off as prying.

"Your right. That doesn't sound like a good trip," he said lightly. That didn't seem to be that answer that Gwen was expecting. A long second passed, but he didn't say anything more. Her blond brows knitted together.

"Is that not the sort of _weirdness_ that you're talking about?" She asked.

"I- no? Not really. I mean… I get feeling lonely in a new household, but what you're talking about is kinda specific."

She smiled sheepishly and busied her hands by swirling her cup.

"Guess I just needed to get that off my chest. There's no suitable person to vent that to in my life, so I'm afraid you might've been promoted from ' _guy I kinda know_ ' to ' _guy who gets to hear about my hang-ups with the Scrooge Mcduckian lifestyle'_."

Peter's brows shot up. The character, though fictional, shed some light on the situation.

"Jeez. Scrooge Mcduck? That's next level," he said. "Is Harry's family really that rich?"

"Well, yeah." Gwen said through a mouth full of tapioca pearls. "They own Oscorp."

Peter's mouth pressed into a tense line. His heart sped up. Gwen, taking in his expression, swallowed hard as she choked on her laughter.

"What's with that face? You look like you're ready to faint on chaise lounge."

Peter _did_ feel a little faint, even as he ordered his body to stop panicking. There was no reason to panic. Just because he was going to attend the same school as the son of the guy who owned the company that mutated him, that didn't necessarily mean anything. It had been nearly three years since that day at Oscorp. If something was going to happen, surely it would've by now. He got the impression that Harry didn't like him anyway. Maintaining a safe distance wouldn't be hard.

What was he thinking? Why was he being so paranoid? There was no reason to think that Mr. Osborn would… what? Target him? Harm him in some way? Even in his own mind, that sounded ridiculous. Peter's cheeks heated.

"Don't tell me you're intimidated." Gwen continued sounding amused. "You live in the stratospheric upper class too. I'm sure Tony Stark has introduced you to folks that are way more wealthy and powerful than Norman Osborn."

Peter froze. His heart stuttered in his chest.

"What?" he squeaked.

"I mean, I get that Norman Osborn isn't as charismatic as Tony Stark, or at least not as charismatic as his public persona appears to be, but he's not _that_ bad."

"What?" he asked again, and Gwen seemed to finally notice his distress.

"What?" she asked back.

"How do you know about me and Mr. Stark?"

Gwen's mild confusion suddenly turned aghast, and Peter felt cold dread seep into his veins like poison.

"Oh, shit… you don't know do you?" She mumbled.

"How do you know about-?"

"Mhmm, I heard you the first time." She dug her hand into her purse and fished out her phone. After a few taps, she flipped it around so that the screen was facing Peter. He took it with shaking fingers. Above of a thumbnail of a balding news anchor in a navy blazer was the headline:

' _Tony Stark's Secret Son?'_

Peter's breathing hitched. He forced himself to calmly and rhythmically inhale and exhale. He glanced up. Gwen's usual open friendliness had turned pitying. Taking a deep breath, his nerves hardened. He glanced nervously around the shop. Grady had disappeared into the back and there was no one else there. Even so, he felt compelled to mute the audio and turn on the closed captioning before pressing the play button.

The anchor, J. Jonah Jameson, spoke silently with pointy, accusing fingers and exaggerated hand gestures. Most of what Peter read was purely conjecture. They got the basic information right, like his name and age. But the rest? It was baseless speculation that he was a product from Mr. Stark's wilder pre-Iron Man days. That Mr. Stark supported him financially while staying out of his life. That Peter's internship at Stark Industries was just a cover for them to spend father-son time together. That his family had disappeared in the snap, so Mr. Stark had adopted him out of necessity as his only living parent.

A snippet from Mr. Stark's public announcement to retire flashed on screen. The words ' _…take time to be with my family…'_ were highlighted obnoxiously in yellow. Finally, there was a video recorded shakily on someone's phone. Peter recognized it immediately. It had happened just earlier that week. He and Mr. Stark had gone out for DQ blizzards after his exam. The camera caught Peter's blank face as the person recording had passed by. Mr. Stark looked happy, speaking animated, though too quietly it would seem for the recording to pick up. Peter knew, because he was there, his exaggerated enthusiasm was really just compensation for Peter's lack of interest. But to the world, the evidence was certainly damning.

The video ended. Numbly, Peter handed Gwen her phone back, and she took it wordlessly. She eyed him sadly, but seemed to be waiting for him to speak. Peter wasn't sure if he could. There was no one else in the room, but he suddenly felt exposed.

"This isn't right," he bit out. She hummed sympathetically.

"I know, I feel terrible, but I _really_ did think that you already knew about-"

"No, I mean this video is wrong," he rushed out. "The information is inaccurate. He didn't adopt me and I don't want to be adopted. I'm not his biological son either. I'm _Peter Parker._ "

"I figured," Gwen quickly agreed. "The Daily Bugle isn't really known for their commitment to journalistic integrity. It's a trashy tabloid website whose primary goal is to rile up Boomer conspiracy theorists. Everyone knows that. Look at how many times this Jameson guy used the word _'allegedly'_. That oughta tell you everything you need to know." She smiled hesitantly, and when Peter didn't return it, her look became wary. "Hey, it's okay. Anyone with two brain cells to rub together can tell this isn't true."

"You thought it was, and you got plenty of brain cells."

"No, I just read between the lines of what you told me and… well… there is a video of the two of you eating ice cream together. That's hard to argue with."

Peter rested his elbows on the table and leaned on them heavily. His head hung and he stared vacantly at the wood grain, bits of candy, and his gummy bear who had run away from his island and gotten lost at sea.

If he got May back, he could explain this to her. He had needed somewhere to live, and by close proximity he'd been sucked into the lime light. She would laugh. Peter would laugh. But there was no undoing the damage. Even if he managed to publicly set the record straight, the internet wouldn't forget. Anyone who did a quick google search of his name would see this. They were permanently linked now, he and Mr. Stark.

Peter grimaced. How could anyone care about celebrity drama right now, given everything that had happened? It was just his crappy Parker luck striking again. Of course, someone would decide to take away his anonymity just when he was working himself up to quietly remove himself from the Starks. Why was he surprised?

"I gotta go," he said, getting to his feet.

"Peter-"

"Thanks for all of this." He gestured to the table littered with candies. "It was really nice of you, but I gotta…" he jerked a thumb over his shoulder.

Gwen stared, her expression unwaveringly sad and guilty.

"Alright," she said and picked up his cupcake. "Take gummy Hanks for the road?" Peter hesitated, and the moment's pause urged Gwen to say desperately: "Please? It would help me feel like a slightly less awful person for totally ruining your birthday if you took it."

Peter's eyes widened and he quickly grabbed it from her.

"Oh, no, no, you didn't ruin anything. I would've found out at some point. It's okay, really."

His reassurance didn't seem to do anything. Her eyes seemed to implore him to understand, and Peter found himself feeling strangely guilty for inadvertently causing her to look at him like that.

"I swear, I didn't know this article was basically outing you as a former ' _rags to riches_ ', new money kid like me. I didn't realize you and Stark were being all _secretive_ about it."

Peter laughed at that.

"Rags to riches? I thought you said your family wasn't poor."

Gwen gave a small, relieved looking smile.

"We weren't. But anyone who makes less than $500k a year is basically a peasant to these people."

Peter couldn't agree or disagree with that. He'd never known Mr. Stark to look down on anyone as Mr. Osborn apparently did.

"Do you need a ride?" She asked and tipped her head towards the store front windows. Peter recognized the car parked on the street as the one that she'd been sitting on in the student parking lot.

"Nah, I got my own way of getting around." He felt the collapsed web shooters resting in his jeans' pockets. "But thanks."

* * *

By the time that Peter returned to Mr. Stark's apartment, it was late afternoon and a dull soreness had leeched into him. He didn't want to come back. His plan had been to stay out and distract himself for as long as possible. But it was hot, and all of the Red Dead Redemption speed runs and cute puppies of the internet couldn't make him forget what he'd just seen.

' _Tony Stark's Secret Son?'_ , looped through his head and nothing could push it out. A tightness had filled his chest, and after a while, he had noticed that the muscles in his shoulder and neck had begun to ache. Not badly enough to hurt, but enough to irritate him. Then a headache sneaked up on him and nagged with subdued persistence. It was around that time that Peter decided to throw in the towel.

He crawled in through his window and was met with the sounds of Mr. Stark and Ms. Potts going about their day. Their voices resounded warmly throughout the apartment, completely indifferent of Peter's absence. They chit-chatted and joked around lovingly as Peter wandered into the bathroom and pulled a bottle of pain-killers (specifically manufactured for him and designed to surpass Peter's metabolism), down from the cabinet.

The hiding out continued, except Peter contained it to his bedroom because… where else was he gonna go? After a few more hours, he heard Ms. Potts leave and come back. Soon after, Mr. Stark was knocking on his door. Peter, taking a few measured breathes, plastered on his best _'happy and totally not freaking out'_ face.

It was Thai food again, from the same restaurant as last time. Peter was struck with an odd sense of déjà vu as he filled up his stomach with his favorite food and made an effort to engage in conversation like a normal person. If for no other reason, he wanted to pass the remainder of their time together as pleasantly as possible.

After dinner, they had cake. Mr. Stark and Ms. Potts sang _Happy Birthday_ with an awkward rhythm that suggested that they hadn't done that in quite some time. Peter smiled and forced himself not to squirm under the attention. He had never liked it when people sang to him like that, as was tradition on birthdays. It was no use to bring that up now. This was the first and only birthday he'd be spending with them. Pointing out that particular quirk would only dampen the mood.

All throughout the meal, Peter noticed Mr. Stark and Ms. Potts shooting each other conspiratorial looks that left Peter on edge. _'Surprise party'_ , was his first heart-sinking thought. But that couldn't be true, he reminded himself. A party implied that there would be guests, and there was no one that his guardians knew of who would attend such a thing for him.

Still, there was something going on. He just knew it. After they were all done eating, Mr. Stark looked at him intently and Peter knew his suspicions were correct.

"C'mon, kid, let's get outta here."

"Where're we going?" Peter asked while Mr. Stark urged him to his feet.

"For a drive," he said innocently. He didn't elaborate any further despite Peter's obvious piqued interest. Instead he clapped a hand on his shoulder and steered him towards the front door. Ms. Potts waved them off as she gathered the empty take-out containers.

It was quiet as they got in the elevator. They descended to the parking garage in a similar silence. Finally, Mr. Stark sent him a strange look over the roof of the car as they stood at the doors on opposite sides.

"You're seriously not going to ask where we're going?"

Peter shrugged and pulled open the passenger side.

"I know you're not gonna tell me anyway. Why bother?"

He ducked into his seat and kept his gaze fixed on the windows. Mr. Stark pulled out of the underground parking, and Peter squinted in the contrasting bright sunlight. The drive was short, only a few blocks. It was barely long enough for Peter to form any theories of where they could be headed. Soon, Mr. Stark eased into a parking space in front of a closed mechanic's garage. Peter's head cocked to the side as he took in the front of the building. His eyes flicked down to the dash board to see if the check engine light had come on. It hadn't. Mr. Stark pulled the keys out of the ignition, and turned to him with an ecstatic grin.

"Here we are," Mr. Stark said. "Ready?"

"For what?" He asked nervously. Mr. Stark's beaming completely overshadowed Peter's underwhelming response. He got out and Peter trailed after him. He watched as Mr. Stark pulled a set of keys out of his pocket, bent down, and unlocked the heavy padlock securing a roll-down door. He threw it open with vigor.

The inside of the garage was dark, but Peter could make out a few large shapes silhouetted in the weak light. Mr. Stark ushered him in with impatient, beckoning hands. Then, a light switch flicked on and the space was bathed in florescent lighting. Again, Peter blinked rapidly while his eyes adjusted. When his sight cleared, he stood wide-eyed and rooted to the spot.

In front of him were two cars: a junky-looking beater that looked as though it might've been stellar eye-candy at some point in time, and a sleek Audi. Standing between the two, Mr. Stark grinned and threw his hands out to the sides, like a showman at the height of a grand reveal.

"Surprise, kid!"

He reached into his pocket and pulled out a little tube, popped the top, and released an explosion of compressed confetti. Peter, who hadn't moved a muscle save for blinking, suddenly remembered something from the depths of his sleepy memory.

Ms. Potts was right. Two was excessive.

He might've laughed if his voice hadn't shriveled up in his throat. Mr. Stark fingers fluttered anxiously over the empty tube before he tossed it casually on the cement floor. It rested among its colourful, shimmering contents. His eyes roved over Peter before his waning smile lifted determinedly.

"So, just to clarify, I'm not giving you two cars. Not really. Here, we got the practical car," he gestured to the Audi, "which you'll be driving for now to get you from A to B." He shifted his focus to the other side and made a grand, sweeping movement with his hand. "And over here we got the actual gift; the _fun_ car. Someone's done this beauty wrong. Poor thing was neglected and in need of a good home when I found her." He patted his hand gently on the dented roof, as if he were comforting it in its injured state. He said to it: "Not to worry, dear. We're gonna treat you right and restore you to your former glory. How does that sound?"

He glanced back at Peter, who did nothing more than stare back at him. His smile faltered.

"I know it doesn't look like much now, but with a little TLC she'll shine up nice. I got faith in our skills and we got a lot to work with here," he paused and looked at Peter expectantly. Silence followed, and he continued hurriedly: "I was thinking it'd take maybe… three weeks? Yeah, three weeks if we go hard on the repairs. Five or six weeks if we take our time to really _savor_ the experience."

Mr. Stark's attention remained solely on him, but still, Peter said nothing. His eyes shifted from one car to the other. He looked around and noticed that the tall, red toolboxes and various pieces of automotive equipment that were scattered about seemed to be brand new and unused.

"Kid?"

What were the chances that Mr. Stark happened to own a small garage only blocks away from his current and temporary residence? It was too convenient to be believed.

This was all for him. Hundreds of thousands of dollars had likely been sunk into this single gift. That couldn't possibly be normal, not even for Mr. Stark's warped perceptions of worth and value. This was clearly over the top. Something was being bought, and Peter wondered with rising dread, if it was his compliance.

Peter's stomach clenched. Could he still be justified in his anger when Mr. Stark had given him two cars? And tools? And a garage? And a spidersuit? And shelter? And food? He knew that he could, just as he knew that no one could hold those things over him if he didn't accept them.

"You don't like it," Mr. Stark said. His disappointment was apparent, though Peter could tell he was trying to hide it. Peter crossed his arm, gripping his elbows tightly to brace himself, but he didn't back down.

"No. I don't."

"Alright, I get it." His eyes had a frantic glint in them, and he nodded his head quickly as if trying to convince himself of something. "Restoring a car is a lot of work, and I _did_ pick out the gnarliest fixer-upper I could find. Maybe it's a bit too rough around the edges? A bit too time consuming. If you're not up for the work, I can find one that's lives somewhere in the middle ground between complete overhaul and spit shine glossing."

"It's not that."

Mr. Stark stared.

"You don't want to do it, do you?"

Peter shook his head mutely. A lump was forming in his throat.

"Okay. That's fine. I just thought..." he trailed off, defeated. Peter's heart twinged. His resolve nearly broke, and for a fleeting moment he felt the urge to take the gift just so he wouldn't look at him like that. But then Mr. Stark composure slid smoothly over him. He gave Peter a fake-looking smile and clasped his hands with crisp sounding ' _clap'_. "New plan, your gift is the Audi! I installed Karen in it already so-"

"I don't want it," Peter said roughly. Mr. Stark gaped at him, completely dumbstruck.

"You… you don't want-?" he started in faint disbelief. He scoffed then, shaking off his stupor. "C'mon, don't give me that. What kid your age doesn't want a car? You don't wanna be that one senior whose parent still pick him up from school every day. That's lame, even if the parent is someone as cool as me."

Peter's hands squeezed painfully around his elbows.

"I'll take the subway."

"But you don't have to, that's what I'm saying!" Mr. Stark shouted. "What the hell is this? Why do I need to sell you on a gift that most people would be thrilled to get? Just take it!"

"It's not about the car!" Peter yelled back.

"Then what?" Mr. Stark frustratedly threw his hands up. "What's this really about? The maintenance cost? You don't have to worry about that. Everything, including the insurance, has already been paid for."

"So you keep it then!"

"For Christ's sake, Peter! I'm trying to do a good thing here! Why won't you let me? I just wanna get my kid a new set of wheels for his birthday, how's that a bad-?"

"I'm not your kid!"

The air dried up.

Mr. Stark flinched like he'd been hit. Peter felt tears prickle the corners of his eyes. He could hear his pulse thrumming desperately in his ears.

"Peter…"

"Just stop it!"

"Stop what?" Mr. Stark asked softly.

"All of this!" He waved his hands around at their surroundings. "I don't want anything from you! I'm not your kid and you're not my dad!"

Mr. Stark became very still. In an instant he seemed to have aged tremendously. Peter had seen Mr. Stark's serious expression many times before, but he'd hadn't seen him wear such sad resignation since… since day twenty-two.

Peter's heart spiked. He felt sick. He wanted to stop, like the weak voice inside him begged him to do. But something stronger, more hateful and corrosive, was fueling him.

"I'm not trying to be your-"

"Yes, you are!" Peter snapped. "Ever since I moved in you've been trying to be my dad and I don't want you to be! I _had_ a family, and they're gone now! I don't need you and Ms. Potts playing house with me until I'm eighteen!"

"We're not-"

"I never asked for any of this! I never wanted you to take me in!"

Peter's mouth snapped shut, his eyes wide. He trembled under the gravity of instant, shuddering regret. He had bitterly thought that statement many times in the past few days, but he'd never intended to actually _say it_ out loud. That, for him, had been the ultimate line in the sand. The thing that he wouldn't say no matter how mad he got. But he had said it… and Mr. Stark was leaning against the rusty beater car with a raised hand pinching the bridge of his nose.

God, what was wrong with him?

"I'm sor-"

"That's it. I'm done," Mr. Stark ground out. He pushed off of the car and stood firmly on both feet. The look that he leveled Peter with was hard and resolute. "I've been turning a blind eye to your shitty attitude because I thought it was all a part of the healing process and you needed to get something out of your system. But Jesus, kid, I'm not your damn punching bag, and neither is Pepper. I'm _not_ going to put up with this anymore."

There it was. The moment that Peter had been baiting into fruition for so long. He had asked for this to happen, but he hadn't expected to feel so small when it did.

He paused only long enough to scrub a hand furiously over his welling eyes. He had no right to cry when this had all played out exactly as he knew it would.

"Well, I'll be gone soon and you won't have to put up with _me_ anymore," he muttered thickly and turned on his heel.

"That's not what I-"

He ran into the street. Reaching into his jeans' pockets, he pulled out two metal squares.

"Hey! Peter!"

He snapped them on to his wrists.

"Get back here!"

But he was already gone. Throwing himself high in the air, Mr. Stark's shouts faded below him.

He didn't look back.


End file.
